


The Dragon Queen Reborn

by Daemon_Belaerys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Incest, M/M, R plus L equals J, Reincarnation, Somewhat crack.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys
Summary: Rhaegar always wanted a Visenya for his Aegon, well, be careful what you wish for.





	1. In the Beginning.

 

**Author types as sweat pours down his face and neck. A sword of Valyrian steel resting on his neck in the hands of the captain of GRRM's liquidation squad.**

" **I 'Daemon Belaerys' author of this piece of fiction, and lurker of the ne** **t** **hereby decree that anything you recognize belongs to George R.R Martin, owner of AsoIaF, Master of Prose and Ruler of the Books, The Old Man, Murderer of Favorites, and Lord of Procrastination"**

 **Ahem, anyway. You can all thank my blasted cousin for this piece, since he was the one who told me that 'you don't have the fucking balls to write a 'fem-Jon' fic', so naturally, the fucking egocentric that I am accepted. However, I couldn't, in good conscience, let him have the last word so I thought, he wants 'fem-Jon- I'll do one better. We all know that Rhaegar wanted a Visenya for his Aegon, well in this case he doesn't just get a Visenya, he gets** _The_ **Visenya, and let's just say, the baddest Warrior Queen in the history of Westeros won't be pleased to see what has become of her line, or her Kingdom…**

**Warnings: Sex almost from straight away, violence, cursing, incest... the usual AsoIaF stuff that you always find, in my fics at least. Also, you all know my usual writing style. Well, I guess it's more of the same. I've always liked Jon Snow, even if he is at times an angsty moody… bastard. Well, reading about the same angsty Jon Snow every damn time loses its appeal. Its bloody fanfiction for god's sake, try to not always write the characters at the exactly same way I say, so here you go, a fem-Jon fic where he isn't an angsty bastard. Isn't lusting for Robb, and doesn't play the 'meek' Lady Snow that we see so often with fem-Jon, hell, I don't even think that we'll see fem-Jon lust over Jaime either.**

**Some High Valyrian is also spoken. Translation is at the authors note at the bottom.**

**Oh, and I think I am the first person in fanfiction to kill of a particular character before that character is even introduced into his/her storyline according to the books/show. Have fun guessing until you find out which one.**

**Tower of Joy, Visenya:**

Visenya was confused, no scratch that, she was completely _befuddled_. There she was, in a room that was not her own. Which was peculiar since she could most definitely remember retiring early in her bedchambers on Dragonstone one evening shortly after her seventieth name day because of an oncoming chill she'd felt for a few days prior.

Even more strange was that she was… formless. She could see neither her hands, arms, hair or even her breasts. For that matter, it also shouldn't be possible to see from more than one angle, but she did. She could see from above and below, not to mention from the sides, so yes, she was bloody well confused, and at her age, well, the last time she had been confused she had shown the relatively new and somewhat uppity Master-at-Arms on Dragonstone _exactly_ why she had had as big a part of planning and executing the invasion as her brother-husband had. Said man was lucky to escape with nothing more than a broken arm, though likely his ego would never recover after having had his arse well and truly handed to him by a woman eight and sixty years old.

So yes, she was confused, confused enough that the couple rutting like animals in the room was actually a welcome sight as she had something to focus her mind on. The young woman, barely into womanhood was comely enough she supposed, with her long raven tresses and grey eyes. A finely sculpted face and large enough teats to interest a man she supposed, although her hips were still narrow enough that Visenya, and indeed most who knew of the rigors of childbirth would suggest giving the girl a few more years to ripen before trying to birth a babe.

The man she 'recognized' almost instantly. Somewhat at least. While she had never met, or indeed even seen him before, she knew her brother well enough to recognize someone of his seed. Furthermore, the _utterly_ effeminate pout on his lips was so undoubtedly Rhaenys that she almost felt a pang of longing and sorrow through her.

"Rhaegar, Rhaegar." the girl moaned, _loudly_. So loudly in fact that 'Senya almost snorted in disbelief. Either the girl was a whore who didn't know better, was utterly inexperienced with fucking, or perhaps most unlikely, her great nephew or whatever Rhaegar was, was a most accomplished lover… which again she doubted, especially if he was anything like Rhaenys.

Now, her brother Aegon might have visited Rhaenys' chambers far more often than he'd visited her own, if only for the fact that he, like their lustful bastard brother Orys, wanted to just pound something into submission every now and then. Something he never got from her that was sure. Visenya might be one of her brother's two wives, but she was both his elder, and his superior in the arts of war, having been the one who introduced him to a blade the first time, and while she played her part… well enough in public, she _never_ let Aegon forget just who was the Master, or Mistress if you will in the bedroom. So, while Rhaenys had him more often, and who knows how many other lovers on the side, the lustful little imp that she was, 'Senya had _never_ seen Aegon leave Rhaenys' chambers as exhausted, or scratched or bruised as he'd be when leaving her own bed.

"Tonight Lya, you'll give me my Visenya." Rhaegar moaned as he, rather inexpertly in 'Senya's opinion rammed his cock faster and harder into his lover. A pathetic minute later that left 'Senya bemoaning the pathetic skills of her something or other nephew it was over. Rhaegar moaned, shuddered, and collapsed pathetically at 'Lya's side.

"I love you." the poor naive star struck girl whispered.

"I love you too my beautiful wife, my lovely she-wolf." Rhaegar replied in turn, looking more like a fop than she'd ever seen, and she had seen her share. Still, he had at least been a man smart enough to marry into _former_ royalty if 'Senya's suspicion was true and that 'Lya' was a Stark of Winterfell, and she felt a sudden cold creep up her non-existent spine. Had her son Maegor lost the war against the Faith? He must have if her House no longer cared to preserve dragon blood by marrying _Westerosi_ of all things. "I pray that my seed has taken hold tonight." Rhaegar whispered as he laid a soft, _pathetic_ kiss on his wife's cheek.

And then it happened. 'Senya could feel _something_ pulling her. Pulling her straight toward the Stark chit's belly in fact. 'No, No NO.' she yelled ineffectively, even though no one could hear her. 'Let me GO DAMN YOU.' she screamed with fury, but alas to no effect, and before she could even try to mount a resistance it was all dark, and warm, oh so warm, not to mention comfortable, and she grudgingly felt her 'eyes' close and her mind rest…

** 000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000 **

**Tower of Joy, Nine turns of the moon later. The Sword of the Morning:**

"We leave for Dragonstone." Lord Commander Gerold spoke the minute he laid eyes on the still bloody and screaming babe.

' _By the Gods she has a set of lungs on her.'_ Arthur thought. "And what, just leave them here to die? Rhaegar's last babe? His wife?"

Gerold sighed. "Do you think I desire to do so Arthur? We held out here after the sack on the off chance it would be a boy, but alas, no cock on the wee screamer, and lest you forget Viserys at least has both a strong castle, and the mightiest fleet in Westeros with him on Dragonstone, what does this little girl have?"

" **Visenya**." Arthur snarled, "Has **me** , and I am as duty sworn to defend her as Rhaella and Viserys. I swore an oath Gerold, to my friend, my friend who I accepted as my King before his father was even close to lying in the ground."

Gerold and Oswell both looked at him with harsh eyes, before finally nodding in restrained approval. "I wish you good fortune Ser, it has been an honor to serve at your side."

"No…" Arthur said slowly as he clasped forearms with first Oswell, then his Lord Commander. "The honor was mine, Ser."

It was less than an hour after the two Knights of the Kingsguard left for Starfall to seek passage to Dragonstone before the sound of approaching horses could be heard once more. Glancing at his increasingly paling Princess, who according to the wet-nurse most likely wouldn't live past the next hour he walked over to the window and stared down at towards the riders.

" _Arthur._ " Lyanna whispered with a hoarse voice. "W _ho is it_?"

"I recognize your brother Eddard, his friend Howland Reed, and one of Brandon Stark's friends, Ethan Glover I think." he told her calmly while hurriedly belting Dawn to his side.

"NO!" Lyanna screamed, clearly putting as much of her remaining strength into her voice as she could. "You cannot hope to defeat all of them, and my brother will not harm me."

"It is not your safety I fear for Princess." Arthur admitted as he glanced at the small silvery blonde-haired babe that was nursing at her mother's breast for the last time.

"Arthur please… stay. Ned will no more harm 'Senya, than he'll harm me." Lyanna's eyes were glazed and opening and closing on their own account now Arthur noted with worry.

"Very well." he spoke with a strange hitch to his voice, even as he stubbornly refused to acknowledge the tears that ran down his cheeks. In the year or so that he had known his Princess he had become very fond of her, in a platonic fashion of course. He had conversed with her, both before and after Rhaegar left. Listening to her as she spoke with hope and joy of the babe growing within her, and the possible future she would have.

He had been the one to hold her, and comfort her after she learned what happened to her father and brother in Kings Landing. And he had been the one again to comfort her, and swear to protect her and her babe after they learnt of Rhaegar's fate on the Trident, and lastly, he had been the one to hold her hand, stroke her hair and whisper encouragement while Lyanna screamed to the heavens, cursing everyone from the cook in Winterfell to Rhaegar or even the Gods themselves as she birthed her babe. Probably just as well he didn't go out to meet Eddard Stark and his companions, not with his hands being as they were, the left one broken, while his right was no doubt sprained at the very least because of the she-wolf and her surprisingly strong grip.

"I'll stay Lya." He told her, finally calling her the name she had badgered him about so many times. Taking a chair, he pushed it right to the head of the bed next to Lya, unsheathed Dawn and let it rest within easy reach at his side and then the door opened and Eddard Stark and his men came pouring in.

Seeing the hesitation in their eyes, as well as the pleading looks from Lya, Arthur stood up slowly and held his hands out in a non-threatening gesture. Stark nodded once and two burly northerners seized Arthur in a rather uncomfortable grip, one holding a blade at his throat while another held his own dagger rather alarmingly close to Arthur's cock.

" _Ned_." Arthur felt the weakness in Lya's voice hit him like a hammer, much like the hammer blow that killed Rhaegar on the Trident, a feeling shared by every single one of the northerners in the room.

"Lyanna." Eddard said with a trembling voice as he took the chair Arthur had so recently vacated.

" _Is that really you? you're not a dream_?"

Ned barely held back a sob as he smiled at his dying sister. "No, I'm not a dream sister. I'm here."

" _I missed you, big brother_." Lyanna said, her voice trembling from pain, fear, joy or perhaps all three.

"I missed you too," Ned replied, and Arthur could see the tears start trickling down his cheeks. He looked around at Arthur and the wet-nurse who was holding Lyanna's babe. "Get her some water, a Maester, anything." he pleaded.

"We did all we could." Arthur explained. "Nothing more can be done."

"No." Ned let out a broken sob, before Lyanna brought his attention back to her by clutching onto his arm with what strength remained with her, while also gesturing for the wet-nurse Wylla to bring the babe.

" **Listen** to me Ned, this is my V-visenya, if Robert finds out he'll kill her… you know he will, you have to protect her, promise me."

If Ned had been shocked at first, he was even more so when he laid eyes on the little girl… the _unmistakably_ Targaryen girl. " _Promise me."_ Lyanna continued to whisper desperately. While still alive, if barely, everyone could see she was already gone, neither words nor medicine could get through to her now, and with a final ' _promise me'_ she fell still.

"Ned..." one of his bannermen said while trying to hide his sniffles. "What do we do?"

"You heard what Lady Lya wanted." a man bearing the crossed axes on a field of yellow of House Dustin grunted. "Lady Lya wants her baby girl to be protected and the Old Gods and the New hang Tywin, Robert or any other cunt who thinks otherwise."

A solemn chorus of 'Aye's' rang through the room in reply to the Dustin's words.

"Thank you, my friends." Ned said with a quiet voice, too broken with sorrow to put any strength in it.

"Ned…" Howland Reed halted for a moment as he gathered his words. "How will you explain the girl?" he asked, pointing out the rather obvious silvery hair and violet eyes.

"If I may," Arthur interjected carefully, wincing slightly as one of his captors pressed his dagger a bit harder against Arthur's neck.

"Silver hair and purple eyes is not uncommon in my family. My father and I both have it, while my sister has the eyes, and 'everyone' knows that my sister and Eddard were… fond of each other since Harrenhal."

"What are you getting at Dayne?" Dustin asked with narrowed eyes.

"Oswell and Hightower left the moment the babe was revealed to be a girl. "I swore to Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna that I would protect their child." Several of the men hissed or gaped in astonishment at how he addressed the now dead sister of Eddard Stark. "Let the Usurper, Tywin, hells, let the whole damn Realm think that I broke any and all vows to care for my sister's bastard girl… I'll even stand in the Sept of Baelor itself and lie my arse off if it means that I can protect what little is left of Rhaegar and Lyanna in this world."

For the longest moment Eddard stared at him, before nodding. "It'll be easier, and less cruel than to continuously dye her hair at least. You'll have to bend the knee, swear fealty to Robert." he explained as Arthur's captors removed their arms and blades from his person.

Arthur spat on the floor in response. "I'll not go near that man lest I forget myself and try to run him through. I'll send a letter proclaiming my fealty for whatever it is worth, along with my white cloak, I doubt you want to bring the girl anywhere near Robert or Tywin at any rate, and I swore to stay with her."

Ned grimaced, "I doubt Robert will accept that Ser Arthur, both he and Jon Arryn will no doubt argue that the Kingsguard is for life."

Arthur laughed, "If Jaime Lannister felt comfortable enough to push his sword through Aerys' back, ask Robert and Arryn how comfortable they are with the idea of Rhaegar's best friend guarding their backs, especially considering the fact that I am a Dornishman."

"I see your point." Ned conceded. "Very well then, you will ride north to Winterfell at once. I assume the wet-nurse will not mind following?"

"No, My Lord." Wylla spoke. "I've already received payment for my services."

Ned nodded in approval. "You realize I cannot let you leave the North ever again do you not?" he asked Wylla who nodded sadly. "I'll see to it that you are well taken care of after your services are no longer needed, have you any family that you wish to contact? Or have brought North with you perhaps?"

"N-no My Lord." Wylla denied. "My own girl was st-stillborn, and the father left us before he even knew of her. Dead on the Trident for all I know."

"And you my friends?" Ned asked. "Can I trust your discretion in this matter?"

Howland was the first to reply by dragging a dagger across his hand to draw blood. "I swear upon my own blood that I will keep this secret, and the girl safe My Lord." and one after the other, the Northerners swore an oath of blood, impressing even Arthur at their loyalty. ' _Would that Rhaegar had more men like these.'_ he thought, as he placed Dawn back in its scabbard.

** 000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000 **

**King's Landing, one year later. Jon Arryn:**

It had been a long and tiring year, Jon Arryn mused to himself as he could finally sit back in his favorite chair and just _relax_. First Ned had returned from Dorne, with a dead Lyanna in tow, completely shattering Robert who was quickly wedded and bedded to Cersei Lannister afterwards on Jon's recommendation. To make matters worse, he feared that the friendship between Ned and Robert had been ruined for good when Ned informed them that he had accepted Arthur Dayne into his service to, in his own words. "Keep an eye on him, and also to let my daughter know someone of her mother's family at least". A point that Jon could accept, and understand. With how the rebellion had ended, a daughter fathered by a Stark would not have been safe in Dorne, and Ned could hardly take Ashara Dayne with him North, not with him married to Catelyn Tully at any rate.

Robert though, he had raved and ranted. Ser Arthur had no doubt been there when Lyanna was captured, and even with Ned explaining to Robert about how Lyanna had been the Knight of the Laughing Tree and that Aerys had found out and demanded her head, about how Rhaegar had brought her to Dorne in secret while trying to find out a way to remove his father from the Throne, even then, it took all of Jon's skill, Ned threatening to secede from the Iron Throne and lock down the North, and finally Jon to physically strike Robert across the face and threaten to put a switch to his rear like he'd have to do during Robert's boyhood, before Robert _finally_ decided to let things lie.

Robert still doubted the story of Rhaegar though, and refused point blank to let go of his hatred of all things Targaryen, and his fury at Stannis for his failure at capturing Rhaella and Viserys when he took Dragonstone had been terrible. So terrible that Stannis, still not completely recovered from his near death by starvation during the Siege of Storm's End, had been bedridden for a moon's turn after Robert was done beating him.

Jon could understand Robert, to a certain degree at least. Had Viserys escaped with his newborn sister in tow alone and without friend's things would perhaps have been difficult. But having Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent and Willem Darry with them was something else. All three of them were formidable warriors, and in the case of Whent and Hightower almost as much of a symbol of the Targaryens reign as their charges themselves were, and thanks to Gerold's cunning by having the Dragon banner flying over more than one keep, and spreading out the Royal fleet, it had been impossible to find out just _where_ the Targaryen children had been taken, with ships leaving both Dragonstone, Driftmark and Claw Isle, each and every damn ship heading to different destinations. And while the vast majority of the Royal Fleet had been smashed at anchor during a storm, Jon and Robert still had to contend with the fact that Viserys and Daenerys had left Westeros, and that there were six and ten different ships and destinations they could have gone to, the men and women, from Lords to the blasted smallfolk of those isles would rather consume wildfire than to speak a word, all of them giving the feeble excuse of 'I don't know My Lord Hand, they must have left from somewhere else.'

The smug smile of old Lucerys Velaryon, former Master of Ships and Lord of Driftmark was particularly vexing. Unfortunately, since he had bent the knee after the Targaryens fled, they could ill afford to punish him too harshly either. Large parts of the fleet Stannis had constructed had been smashed during the same storm the sunk the fleet at Dragonstone, leaving Lucerys Velaryon with more ships than any other Lord on the eastern coast of Westeros, him being the only Lord not bringing his ships to Dragonstone, no doubt on Hightower or even Rhaella's orders. Oh, Jon was under no illusions that the six and ten ships of his that had 'disappeared' with the Targaryens on one of them had not done so without the express command of the old sea snake, regardless of how much he bleated and cursed at his treacherous captains with a smile on his face. Furthermore, Jon wouldn't raise so much as an eyebrow in surprise if old Velaryon 'suddenly' acquired six and ten new ships relatively soon, alas with no evidence there was little he or Robert could do, not if they wanted the peace to continue, or Stannis to survive.

Oh, Robert could delude himself into thinking that Stannis could control the Lords of the Narrow Sea, and the rest of the Crownlands for that matter by giving Dragonstone to him, but for all their claims of outrage, Jon could see that Lords like Velaryon or Celtigar were rather pleased and he knew exactly why. Stannis was as much of a hostage as Lord Velaryon's son Monford was. But while Monford would be released after five years or if his father was to die before that time, Stannis and his eventual family would still be stuck on Dragonstone. Surrounded by Lords and smallfolk who were almost religiously loyal to House Targaryen.

** 000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000 **

It was a very… odd experience to grow up a second time. Having birthed a babe once, 'Senya, or 'Lyarra' as everyone called her, knew that it wasn't a pleasant affair. And while pushing something the size of a melon out of her cunt had certainly not been a pleasant affair, being said 'melon' had been even worse. It had been so damn tight, almost like being squeezed to death, and then it was suddenly unbearably cold.

The added humiliation of having to wear nappies until she learnt not to make a shitty mess was unbearable. She was a fucking Queen, a Dragon Rider, Blood of Old Valyria, and one of the greatest warriors of her age. Certainly, better than her brother, and while her son had eventually surpassed her if only due to his prodigious strength, she was the one who had taught him all he knew. All this she had accomplished, only to suddenly be born again, with all it entailed.

She had to suckle from a strange woman's teat, she had to learn not to sully her gods forsaken nappies. She had to learn how to walk again, hells it took her seven moons just to speak her first word. Though the look on 'Septa' Catelyn's face when 'Senya called her 'fucking bitch' had almost made all of it worth it.

Perhaps Septa Catelyn, or rather, Lady Stark as everyone else called her _might_ have, if not liked her, at least not hated her if she had made a tiny effort to fit into her role as a 'bastard', well fuck that. This time, she had no brother who she had to wed, even if she did miss his cock, no father to force her into anything, and most importantly of all, she had family to avenge. It had not taken long before she learnt a whole lot more than anyone would suspect. People talked, and also, Septa Catelyn preferred to have her as far away from her proper, perfect little trueborn brother as often as she could get away with.

And so long as 'Senya was still small she saw no problem of spending the majority of her days in Maester Luwin's care, who indulgently read book after book for her, or let her 'read' books of her own, no doubt thinking that she was just admiring the drawings. So 'Senya had found out just about anything that could be found out about what had happened to her House, to the descendants of her beloved brother and sister, and also how history had come to view her, and others of her House.

Needless to say, 'Senya was not pleased, **at all**. Sure, she had never been the most pleasant of women, preferring a sword, and honest hard truth, over frivolous courtesies. Of course, she had not been pleased with her brother taking their younger sister as a second wife, nor that he shunned her own bed in favor of Rhaenys' as much as he did. But to imply that Aegon had left her in King's Landing so that he did not have to suffer her presence on Dragonstone, or that she had made her son Maegor King over her great nephew Aegon, or even worse, become a kinslayer by poisoning her nephew…

Oh, how she had **raged** at these discoveries. While she had disagreements with both her brother and sister, she loved both of them, and would have died for any of them if it would spare their lives. And true, Aegon left her in charge in King's Landing, because he knew that she was the only one he could trust to construct and design the city to his liking. It had been a gesture of trust, and also a statement and recognition of her own power, rather than a lack of love between the two.

Her reasons for crowning Maegor had been from the start, her belief that Maegor was the better choice at that time. The crown was in strife with the Faith, and Aenys' young son Aegon, had neither the dragon or skill, in either warfare or politics to fight that war.

The rumor of kinslaying was the hardest to swallow though. For a long time, she had feared that Aenys, her nephew and stepson would be the only child she would ever 'have' after the two miscarriages she had suffered, both during the Conquest, which in hindsight probably explained a bit. Rhaenys had died while the boy was barely three, and somewhat sickly besides. Now 'Senya would be the first to admit that she, like her own mother had never been the most warm or lovable of sorts. But none who knew her well would ever deny that she didn't love her children, both of them, as since she had practically raised Aenys by her own with Aegon drowning out his grief over Rhaenys' death, and considered him to be **her** son, just as much as Maegor was.

Had she not been the one to crown Aenys after Aegon died? Had it not been her who sat by Aenys' bedside to nurse him back to health when the Grand Maester, a personal friend of the High Septon had declared with a certainty that there was nothing to be done? The fat fool had been right, and 'Senya suspected that it was he, along with his accursed friend the High Septon who had made sure that there was nothing to be done.

At least the books were somewhat correct. 'Senya had been far more than a 'mere' dabbler in sorcery. Her skill with her craft had kept Aenys alive for weeks longer than should have been possible with all the remedies and physicians in the world, and it was only Aenys' own pleas to her to let him go and to let the pain stop that she finally gave him up. Hearing him say 'thank you mother,' on his deathbed had been one of the few times in her life that she had allowed tears to fall.

At least she got her vengeance. Bringing Maegor back from the exile pushed on him, had let them strike back against their enemies. The Sept of Remembrance had been burnt down with the High Septon and hundreds of his followers inside. The Grand Maester had barely held out for an hour under her own personal questioning before he confessed to having poisoned Aenys at the High Septon's request, and hundreds, if not thousands of Warriors Sons had been killed, either by dragon fire, or the royally sponsored inquisition, that, much like the Kingsguard, had been both devised by, and staffed by herself, all the while Aenys' wife and children were kept safe on Dragonstone. Not as hostages, but from the religious fanatics seeking their death.

But, she couldn't deny that Maegor had gone off the deep end after her death. While she was alive, she had counselled him, and his brother and father before him wisely, even if they did not always heed her advice. But why Maegor would turn into a paranoid witless brute after her death she supposed she'd never find out, unless there was an afterlife. If there was she couldn't tell, her last memory being of going to bed the night she had died. Then again, perhaps there was an afterlife and one could not remember it as long as one was alive. Why she even was alive again was also a mystery for that matter.

So, with a second chance at life she was determined to make herself known again, not as someone else's wife, not as a cruel man's mother. No, she would make the name Visenya Targaryen known for only her own actions, to leave a legacy that would make the name Visenya Targaryen be whispered in the same breath as Aegon the Conqueror or the Last Hero for thousands of years after her death.

It was of course this determination that was the biggest reason why Septa Catelyn _loathed_ her very existence. It took Robb nearly three and ten months to say his first word, which to Septa Catelyn's apoplectic fury was 'fuck' taught by 'Senya herself, who had seemed far smugger than a babe of one year had any right to be. While it had actually taken both her and Robb just about the same amount of time to learn how to walk. Senya had stopped using nappies and the wet-nurse's teat shortly before her second name day, while Robb had not been weaned until close to his third name day, and still used nappies almost into his fourth year.

While Robb was still struggling with his sums and letters, Senya was already putting Sansa and the newborn Arya to sleep by reading them tales in fluent High Valyrian, a language she was more proficient in than Maester Luwin himself. Not surprising considering it was her 'mother's tongue', and if only Septa Catelyn had known just how many languages Senya could speak, read and write, she'd probably have a heart attack.

Septa Catelyn of course did not take any of this lying down, and fought back tooth and nail… as well as she was able to at least. She never once attempted to put her hands on her, the warning glares of Ser Arthur saw to that. Trying to badmouth her or spread malicious rumors didn't help much either, as the people of Winterfell, for the most part adored her. She may still be as cold and reserved, blunt and capable of delivering cruel hard honesty as she'd always been during her years as Queen, but she was never once malicious, and even with her hard exterior, people always whispered of what a beauty she would grow up to become. "Just like winter our little Lady Snow is." people would say. "Cold and harsh, but beautiful nonetheless"

Truthfully, the only thing Septa Catelyn easily got 'away' with, was to bar her from the high table, and to refuse her presence her little sowing circle of gossip mongers, which was just as well. Her new family of Starks was decent enough. She didn't have them, and reluctantly had to admit a certain fondness for them, but she had never had the greatest patience with small children, which was part of why she had been stern, but still fair with her own. And she was no better now than she had been during the time she raised her own children, which was probably the largest reason of why Septa Catelyn was almost tearing out her own hair as Robb, and soon enough Sansa and Arya and Brandon followed her around like little ducklings.

True, Robb was a boy, he was older, bigger, and would eventually… probably be stronger, but 'Senya was a Queen. She was used to leading armies, she could silence fully grown men, who had grown hard as stone after the butchery of war with naught but a glance. Bending her young, innocent and naive cousins to her whims was child's play, which considering her current lot in life was truer than she cared to admit.

When she and Robb were about six her 'father' was called south along with the rest of the North to fight the Ironborn. It was also the first time she laid eyes on William Dustin again, one of the men who had accompanied her uncle Ned to the Tower of Joy. Rather than meet with the Northern host on the way south he had personally ridden to Winterfell while sending most of his host on their way to Moat Cailin. Ostensibly so that he could speak with Lord Stark about fostering his son Brandon in a few years once the boy was old enough, but judging by how quickly he sought out 'Senya and 'uncle' Arthur she was reasonably certain why he had come North.

He had smiled at her, praised her beauty, japed about how her 'father' would have to beat men away with a big stick, grumbled a reluctant greeting to Ser Arthur, gotten a bit misty eyed while recalling her mother, never mentioning her mother's name of course, and grumbled a few more words to Ser Arthur, causing both her and Arthur to share a disturbingly similar roll of the eyes the moment Lord Dustin was distracted.

The look on Septa Catelyn's face when Dustin whispered a few choice words about just what would happen should he, or some other choice Northern Lords find out that she had 'hurt Ned's 'little' girl' had been like having a second name day in one year.

It was during this year, the year 289 after the Conquest that Arya Stark was born, that the Ironborn rebelled, and that not even three weeks after returning home with his Greyjoy ward that 'Senya decided that **when** she took back the Throne she had helped her brother forge she would see the line of Greyjoy extinguished root and stem, and the Iron Isles turned into a scorched wasteland reminiscent of doomed Valyria.

Not even three weeks after showing up at Winterfell like he owned the place, the little _cunt_ of a boy had managed to earn the enmity of near everyone in Winterfell. He ran his mouth constantly, picked fights with others, and only those younger and weaker than himself. Called _her_ , Visenya Targaryen herself a whore, cast similar slurs about her mother and offered to pay her a few coppers for her maidenhead when it was time so that she could 'get some practice for her future profession'.

Rather than run off to 'daddy' 'Senya exercised the patience that her past self was so known for. She waited a few moons while Robb was introduced slowly to the sword, bundled up in large amounts of padding and with a wooden sword in hand. He had potential, 'Senya would give him that, definitely more than the Greyjoy who even being five years her and Robb's elder only won due to having a good deal more strength than seven-year-old Robb.

It was during one of these sessions that 'Senya stepped into the practice yard and, sadly, picked up a wooden practice sword.

"Let's see how you face against someone who knows what they're doing Greyjoy." 'Senya spat, while giving a truly smoldering glare at Ser Arthur who tried to put an end to her desire.

Greyjoy, predictably laughed. "You… you think you've got the skills to take me? _You_ a _girl_?"

"Rather a girl than a cowardly, talentless cunt of a _boy_ like yourself Greyjoy." 'Senya bit back with the icy calm that she was so known for.

"You..." Greyjoy reddened while the majority of men in the yard, even old Ser Rodrick snickered appreciatively.

"Lost for words Greyjoy?" 'Senya drawled. "Or perhaps it's your balls you've lost, they certainly seem small enough for you to lose them, perhaps we should find you a gown instead. Gods know I won't need them." Which was true of course. Septa Catelyn, and every seamstress in Winterfell had conceded by the time she was four that dresses was something she would _never_ wear voluntarily, preferring trousers, shirts and tunics instead, she'd wear some ring mail too, if she could get away with it. Sadly, none in her size was around, and though she still knew her way around a needle well enough to make her own clothes, she had never been, and probably never would be, a blacksmith. Her only works had been the forging of her own sword Dark Sister and the crowns of herself and brother and sister, and working Valyrian steel had nothing to do with blacksmithing, and everything to do with the manipulation of magic and dragon fire.

Angry shouts of warning or to stop filled the yard as Theon lost control at her taunt and threw himself at her, intent on beating her black and blue, a distinct possibility due to her lack of padding, but at the same time, as remote as the chance of someone hatching dragons without instruction.

Theon was big, far bigger than her, and stronger too with his twelve years to her almost seven, but there was one thing that no one but she herself knew. From her fifth name day, until her seventieth she could count the days she had not practiced with a sword or other weapon on two hands with fingers to spare. Five and sixty years she had spent honing the crafts of war. She was passable with mace, spear and morning star, good with bow and lance, and a monster with a sword in hand. Preferring to cloak herself in mail and plate than silk dresses, she had been a hard and deadly woman. And while her current body was feebly in comparison to what she had once been, she was still much stronger and fitter than anyone would guess, having started to train and push herself again since her fourth name day. Furthermore, Greyjoy was an unskilled arrogant boy, while _she_ , she prided herself in knowing every bone in a man's body, and how to break every single one of them.

His first wild swing was ducked under. The following reverse stroke she leant away from, the furious overhead chop was sidestepped and then it was her turn to play. With a speed and strength none would have expected she started as dirty as she could by stepping up close and personal and _rammed_ the pommel of her practice sword right into Greyjoy's perfect nose. A swift follow up jab in the throat had him bent over and coughing to regain his breath. Spinning around to his back a quick hard thrust to the back of his knee sent him to the ground. To finish it all she grabbed his left arm in a proper grip, utilizing both her arms and legs she too went to the ground on her back, and with all her strength and body behind her 'twisted' and broke Greyjoy's arm with a sickening snap.

It was of course at this point that her 'father' finally showed up, shaking with anger, at herself and the now sobbing Greyjoy. "Call me or my mother a whore ever again, or slap my brother around and I'll do more than break your arm boy." She sneered at his whimpering form before turning her hard and unflinching violet eyes on her 'father'.

He wasn't pleased with her. Neither was Septa Catelyn. Fortunately, according to him, 'Senya herself thought rather the opposite. Theon would regain the full use of his left arm. She was then treated to a long and tedious lecture about how a 'Lady should not play with swords' and no one, not even Arthur could convince Eddard Stark that letting her train with swords was a good idea, at least not officially, though he no doubt approved of it privately seeing as how he had a rarely visited part of the Godswood cordoned off, and told Ser Arthur that if ever was to take any squires he should practice there, where the Gods could keep an eye on him and his 'southern ways', which obviously resulted in Senya and Arthur spending hours there every day.

'Senya, had been most impressed with Ser Arthur. He was as good if not better with a sword than any she had ever met, including herself and her son Maegor, and judging from Arthur's look of awe and showering praise he was completely amazed at her own 'natural' talents. After all, how could he know that she had a good forty years or so on him? It wasn't like she could just say 'Oh by the way Ser Arthur, I am the real Visenya Targaryen, wife to the Conqueror and all that, oh and I also witnessed my own conception, how neat is that?' At best, she would simply be laughed at and never taken seriously ever again, while at worst, she would get either the kiss of a blade to the neck or a padded room to amuse herself with for the rest of her days with slop for dinner.

No, far better to pretend to have an abundance of natural skill, hardly a leap of the imagination considering her other skills such as language, reading, writing or even strategy, herself having viciously crushed the ego of Roose Bolton during the harvest feast on her fifth name day by beating him and Maester Luwin in two simultaneous games of Cyvasse. The coins she got from the Lord of the Dreadfort, as well as a share from all the bets made had not gone amiss either. Although she had to thank Ser Arthur for that last one, if he hadn't gone into the Kingsguard and then 'left' it to stay with his 'niece', she suspected that he could have become one of the most famous sellswords in history, he certainly had a mercenary instinct when it came to games of skill or chance to make most sellswords green with envy. The fact that he was an anointed Knight, among the most highly respected ones in all of Westeros actually, just meant that most victims… men that is, never saw it coming until it was too late and he was whistling a merry tune while counting out his newly earned winnings.

A few more years and Septa Catelyn looked to be getting the upper hand in their little 'game' at last when she briefly managed to turn Sansa against her by telling Sansa just what it meant to be a bastard. Now as said, 'Senya was quite fond… very well, she did love the little brats that had become her new family, and though she loved them the idea of all of her 'siblings' following her around and/or badgering her all that time was certainly not something she 'enjoyed' exactly, she wasn't about to let 'outside interference' dictate who the brats she had to admit were cousins could accompany either.

So, she held her tongue, as Sansa suddenly didn't want to play anymore, didn't want to hear this or that tale about knights and courtly romance, which truthfully was just as well. The sooner the girl had her eyes opened the better. Oh yes, 'Senya let it all happen, she didn't so much as flinch or twitch when Septa Catelyn gave her a smug look whenever Sansa drew away from 'Senya. Perhaps the history books were right after all when they called 'Senya cruel. Most people would certainly think she was after how she let Septa Catelyn finally feel safe and victorious, only to have it all collapse when Sansa received three new dresses for her name day, all sowed and embroidered painstakingly by 'Senya's own hand, and of a quality that would have made a seamstress quite a lot of coin in a place like King's Landing or the Reach.

After that Sansa was back to worshipping her big 'sister' who apparently could be both a Lady, a bastard and a Warrior, all without even wearing a dress. Sansa almost broke her poor mother's heart even when asking if she could braid her mother's hair like 'Lyarra always has her hair braided.' She never did get to braid her mother's hair like 'Lya's', but at least got a consolation prize of being allowed to do it to Arya's hair instead. Arya and Sansa, being polar opposites of each other, normally wouldn't even be able to agree about whether water was actually wet, so seeing the pair of them actually agree on something and giggle like girlish sisters rather than at the very least near mortal enemies was as refreshing as it was original, and also provided Senya with some piece of mind.

Even better, with seeing both her daughters running around trying to emulate 'Lya', Septa Catelyn had sought comfort/refuge with her husband, and unsurprisingly to some, was now with child again, which to 'Senya was great. A Septa Catelyn with child meant her attention was elsewhere, Arya, Sansa and Bran would be ever more occupied with their eventual brother and sister, leaving Senya with more time to practice with her sword, or sorcery.

Speaking of sorcery, she had to scratch her head sometimes. The Maesters, as well as just about everyone else spoke of how magic was dead, and how it had died with the dragons. She had almost given in to temptation to show Maester Luwin just how 'dead' magic really was the one time she discussed the subject with him.

Although she wasn't surprised either. The Citadel had been trying to either control, or eradicate anything to do with magic for millennia, fearful and envious of its power. Luwin had spoken of how a Maester had to light a glass candle, of how they had hundreds if not thousands of spells and incantations, but none of it worked. ' _Of course, it bloody doesn't.'_ she'd been tempted to shout in frustration, but she held her tongue. Magic was not something everyone could do, furthermore, unless you had a tutor or the right kind of books, you had little chance to perform magic, let alone survive dabbling in it and coming out unscathed.

Now, only some people had the ability to perform magic. Valyrians most famously had been such experts in it, and used it for so long that it was part of their very being, how else would they survive with over five thousand years of breeding only within the family? Magic had been the answer, and it also proved a possible reason why her House had fallen so far. If knowledge had been lost, or worse, deliberately destroyed, rites and rituals neglected it was no wonder why her family had eventually started to succumb to madness, frailty and birth problems and defects, as with her now dead grandmother Queen Rhaella, who'd experienced one and ten pregnancies, but only had three children actually survive more than a year, most of them being miscarriages or stillbirths.

So yes, things went pretty much how it had always done. Septa Catelyn pushed out her newest babe named Rickon. Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Brandon all continued to grow, and play, all of them with their specific areas of interest. Bran developed an unhealthy obsession with climbing, and could often be seen halfway up a wall, tree or tower in Winterfell, as sure-footed as a squirrel. This was a blessing in disguise, as it forced Septa Catelyn's focus and ire elsewhere, giving 'Senya more time to focus on other matters.

Rickon, babe that he was did little else but sleep, shit, drink from his wet-nurse's teats, and cling to his mother's skirts. Utterly uninteresting, but an adorable brat all the same. Sansa, as always was living halfway in her own dream world of courtesies, tales of knightly chivalry, dreaming of the 'wondrous' southern court and the fancy dresses, and dances and musicians that must frequent them, and no one, not even 'Senya had the heart to burst Sansa's bubble with a dose of reality. Even when King's Landing was still under construction, it, and their court had been a nest of vipers, and she doubted that three hundred years had done anything to improve the nature of the court.

Arya, her own little dark-haired clone did her best to emulate 'Senya as best she could, begging both her and her father on her hands and knees to be allowed to learn how to fight. Something that Ned Stark forbid with the same authority as the harshness of winter, and despite how much she pleaded 'Senya would not let Arya partake in her own sessions with Ser Arthur. She did however teach Arya a few moves in the privacy of their quarters. Nothing fancy, and nothing with an edged weapon, but rather her hands and feet, how to use her smaller size and speed to her own advantage. Where she could strike a man to do the most damage with the smallest effort. Besides, it was only a matter of time before Arya badgered Robb into teaching her a few tricks with the sword.

On her own personal front, she 'plotted' with Ser Arthur. How much her protector knew, or suspected she didn't know. He never asked, and neither did she, but they often discussed politics, the various Houses in Westeros, who they owed their loyalty, how many men they could field, their main source of revenue, and how many sons and daughters they had.

Arthur who was 'exiled' from Dorne still received a generous stipend from his brother, Lord Allard Dayne, on the first of every month. It was coin which Arthur didn't really need, and at 'Senya's suggestion, he spent almost in its entirety in the North and in the capital and surrounding lands. The various smallfolk were glad for a little extra coin, and more than eager to pass on little bits of information in return. For the most part, it was worthless, but they discovered a little nugget of gold every now and then, such as Roose Bolton's bastard living up to his 'title', or that resentment was growing exponentially in the Crownlands.

The Crownlanders cared not one whit for Robert Baratheon, even now over a decade after the rebellion, since, with the exception of the Darklyns, the Crownlanders had been, to a fault, staunch Targaryen loyalists for near three centuries, something that wasn't overturned in a fortnight. Almost universally excluding them from any position of power or responsibility in favor of Lannisters and their lickspittles, along with a few Stormlanders and Valemen certainly did not help the resentment any, and if Baratheon or Arryn thought that having a single Crownlander on the Kingsguard would placate them, the Usurper and his Hand were delusional to the point of insolence. That said Knight, 'Ser' Boros Blount, was a fat craven pig and almost as big a disgrace to Knighthood as Gregor Clegane certainly didn't help any.

After she had her first moonblood sometime after her eleventh name day things took a turn for the 'worse' as Septa Catelyn tried to badger her 'father' into having Senya wed or be betrothed as quickly as possible. It certainly did not help matters any that she herself had made some discreet inquiries/offers in the Riverlands either. And the time that a gaggle of Freys had shown up in Winterfell to 'have a look at the girl before accepting' had been the only time she had actually seen Ned Stark absolutely furious with his own wife. He hadn't struck her, he was too good a man for that, but he had coldly informed her that if she ever sought to go behind his back with marriage offers ever again he'd send her packing back to Riverrun without her children until he decided to invite her back.

Of course, by this time it was too late really to salvage the situation, and other Lords, both in the North, and all the way down to the reach attempted to organize a betrothal to a second or third son, a nephew or perhaps a bastard they had a degree of fondness to. And while Lord Stark was dutiful enough to read each and every one of them, and kind enough to discuss them with her, or even encourage her to accept some of them, like the one to Harrion Karstark, of Brandon Dustin, both of them heirs to their House, Visenya refused them all.

A few had even been bold enough to show up in person to ask for her hand on the harvest feast during her fourth and tenth year, which coincidentally was the first time the majority of the North learnt that she was a skilled warrior, after she had sent first Daryn Hornwood, then Asher Forrester and lastly the Smalljon Umber to Maester Luwin, all of them in need of stitches and bruise ointment, things calmed down after that, at least with offers from Northern Houses.

A few short moons later, everything changed. It had started so innocently with 'father', Robb, Bran, Theon and a few guards leaving to execute a deserter. Upon their return, they brought with them a litter of direwolves, even an albino runt for herself that Robb proudly informed her was named Ghost, due to his white coat and silent nature.

That was also when they were informed that the King was riding for Winterfell, and that he would no doubt be asking 'father' to become the new Hand after the sudden death of Jon Arryn. 'Senya had actually been relieved when she and Ser Arthur had been instructed to keep themselves scarce during the King's visit, and though she could see his point, she didn't think that making herself scarce really meant 'you'll stay locked in your room for the duration of his visit', at least she had Ghost, and a few books to read, and space enough to exercise at least, though the boredom of almost complete isolation was taxing.

It had been almost a moon's turn when 'father' finally visited her long enough to actually converse and share the news of what had happened. He was going south to become the Hand of the King, Arya and Sansa would be going with him. Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey the Crown Prince, Brandon had fallen from the First Keep and broken his spine and had yet to wake up, and she would have to marry…

"I'm sorry… can you say that again?" she asked harshly, while Ser Arthur looked to be close to strangling him.

"I cannot bring you south with me, and while Robb will be the Stark in Winterfell, he is still near two years away from manhood, and as such Cat will be acting as his regent."

"And she has made it abundantly clear that I will be thrown to the streets as soon as you leave is that it?" she asked calmly.

'Father' looked pained as he nodded. "It is either that or accept one of your many marriage proposals." he said, somewhat exasperated at the thought of all the proposals he'd received and rejected over the years.

"Very well, Ser Arthur." she turned her head to her 'uncle', "Are you packed?"

"Lyarra?" he asked confused.

'Senya took out a sack and started to pack her belongings that she couldn't go without, such as the gold she'd saved up over the years, change of clothes, spare boots and such. "I believe I'll take my chances on the streets." she said simply as she shocked both of them by drawing a cut in her palm.

"LYARRA!" 'father' shouted as she drew blood and went to take the knife from her hand.

" **Stay back**." she hissed as she gave them both a smirk and then placed her hand inside the blazing hearth. **"Māzigon naejot nyke zōbrie mandia."** she spoke harshly as she felt the magic take hold, and with a grunt of effort she withdrew her hand holding a long slender blade in her hand. The pommel and cross guard was wreathed in gold in the shape of burning flames with a smooth ruby set in the center of the cross guard. The blade itself was thin, about two fingers wide and just shy of forty inches long, with a single fuller running the length of the smoky, almost black metal, although, depending on the light, streaks of red like the color of blood seemed to run over the blade every now and then.

"Wha-Lyarra," Ned gasped with both him and Ser Arthur staring at her in shock.

" **Visenya**." she hissed to their shock. "What? Did you think I didn't know **uncle**? I've known since I was a little girl."

"Ly-Visenya." Ned hiccupped. "I only ever wanted to keep you safe."

"I know." she said with a rare smile, "But you cannot protect me anymore, and I'll never let myself be sold to any man… No, if I ever take a husband it will be one of **my** own choosing."

"But…" he paused, staring a bit closer at the piece of Valyrian Steel she packed carefully into a few shirts that she had intended to dispose of but hadn't actually gotten around to throw out yet. "IS that…"

"Dark Sister yes." she smiled grimly, it had felt good to finally have the blade she had forged from blood, steel magic and dragon fire in her own hand again after all these years.

" _How..._ " he whispered.

"I am Visenya come again uncle." she said with a sly smile at her intended pun. "And like my namesake, I too have knowledge of arts thought by most to be a myth." she held up a hand to forestall him. "I'll say no more about this uncle."

Her uncle must have read the determination on her face because he let the matter lie. "And what will you do then? You cannot just wander aimlessly."

She shrugged slightly, "I am certain there are plenty of places I can travel to, and I'll have Ser Arthur with me. Perhaps the Reach. With their multitudes of tourneys and generous tourney purses I'm certain that neither Arthur or myself will starve."

Ned narrowed his eyes at her. "You want the Iron Throne," he said coldly.

"Of course I do." she admitted without hesitation. "It is only a question of time before war is upon us again. Your friend the Usurper has done _nothing_ to heal the Realm, and Joffrey will not do a better job than his father, all I have to do **uncle** is to wait for the eventual uprising that will come when Robert or Joffrey goes to far."

Her words seemed to strike him like a dagger to the chest. "Lya-Visenya, please, please do not do this."

For the first time in her life she sneered at her uncle. "You may be blind to your friend the **Usurpers** , faults but I can assure you that I am not." she almost felt a stab of joy at seeing the pain on his face at hearing the word uttered with such _venom_ from the girl he had raised as his own daughter. "The man who climbed over the broken corpses of my own siblings to take the Throne my family built, and what did he do to the men who did the deed? He rewarded them. Tywin Lannister, the man who entered my grandfather's city under the guise of friendship only to rape and pillage it got his wish of having his daughter as Queen, and he and all his men were allowed to leave the city they raped and burned with all their ill-gotten loot with not so much as a word of warning… **that** is that man you call your friend, for while Robert did not do or order those things himself, his actions after clearly shows that he agreed and dare I say approved of the Lannisters actions."

"It was a different time." he said angrily, not really able to summon up a proper rebuttal.

"Perhaps, and yet the man hasn't changed… but if it will soothe your bleeding-heart uncle I swear that I'll not be the one to draw first blood, I'll not be the one who provokes war. Your friend the Usurper or his heir will be the ones who does that, not me."

"And if I were to stop you?" he asked her coldly.

'Senya snorted. "The only way you can stop me is the one we both know you won't take, and that is to march back down to the great hall and tell you friend the Usurper the truth. He'll have my head by the end of the day, or perhaps I'll be raped half a hundred times first by his Knights before being split in half like my stepmother Elia, at least I do not have any babes he can murder first so that I might get raped with my children's blood still on their hands."

Ned winced. "I would never…"

"I know uncle, but it is time for me to forge my own path. You've kept your promise to my mother, I've grown up safe and loved."

She accepted the big bearhug he gave her. Even returned his 'I'll always love you like one of my own,' although she'd never in a million years admit that Ser Arthur was right when he later asked if that was a tear he could see in her eye. He may technically only be a bodyguard, but he had genuinely treated her like his own niece, and yes, she was fond of him… but she still had an appearance to maintain.

Rather than risk getting seen by the King she and Arthur left in the middle of the night atop a horse each, with a third horse trailing after them on a line with their provisions. "So where to now?" Arthur asked finally.

"It is customary to refer to your Queen as Your Grace you know," she replied with a small grin.

"Aye that is true," Arthur admitted with a laugh. "Yet I have spent the last four and ten years under the belief that you did not know anything… so forgive my 'Your Grace' for being just a little out of practice."

"Very well." she sighed theatrically. "I suppose I can forgive you, you were the only one to remain with me after all."

"Aye I was," he admitted softly. "The war was already lost by then, and I for one would not leave my best friend's child alone to die."

"And I thank you Ser," she said, giving Arthur another one of her rare smiles.

"So, do you truly intend to take back the Iron Throne?" he asked her.

"I do, and I know just how to get it."

"How?" he questioned.

"Well… at first we'll need coin, so that means tourneys, of which we'll find plenty of in the Reach. I assume you'll not mind riding in the honor of your favorite 'niece,' Lord Commander?"

If he was at all shocked or surprised at being named Lord Commander of her Queensguard he didn't show it, not that she had any other candidates lining up either for that matter. "I believe 'Your Grace' that if we continue our charade you would be my 'only' niece."

"And therefore, be right there at the top of your favorites." she countered.

"Aye." he admitted when he stopped laughing. "It'll be good to teach those Reachmen what a proper Knight can do."

"Being wined and dined, for being the Sword of the Morning, and then taking their coin is just a happy coincidence I'm sure." 'Senya admitted somewhat drily.

"Aye there is that," he admitted with a smile.

"What do you intend to do with all of this coin then? Raise an army? purchase the services of the Golden Company perhaps?"

Visenya wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Hardly, but having such a large amount of coin should be enough to gain you and I an audience with Lord Velaryon. Once I convince him we need but to wait for the opportune moment."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you intend to convince him to declare for you? Viserys is still alive, even my words can only do so much while a male heir of your House still lives."

Visenya smiled at Arthur, a rather chilling smile compared to the warm one he'd received earlier. "Who do you think Velaryon will declare for? "A man across the sea with two Knights in his service and nothing else? Or a woman with blood ties to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, with a large amount of coin at her disposal, and lastly a living dragon at her disposal."

"A dragon?" Arthur said skeptically, "And where does this dragon hide itself? As I doubt you have room in your pockets."

"Fear not Ser, the dragon awaits us beneath the caves of Dragonstone… well as soon as I hatch it at any rate."

Arthur's eyes widened. "H-hatch it? Ly-Visenya..."

'Senya cut him off right there. "I know that attempts have been made to hatch dragons several times the past few hundred years, the last attempt at Summerhall nearly bringing an end to my House, so I ask you Ser… Do. You. Trust. Me?"

"With my life." he admitted.

Visenya nodded. "Good, trust in me and I can assure you that everything will go as I have planned. Hatching a dragon is not difficult at all, provided you know what to do."

"And you do?" he asked. "How, and for that matter there are other things to that you know that makes me wonder."

"One-day Ser… One day I'll tell you the full truth, but not yet."

"I can assure you, you can trust me," he said.

"I know," she replied calmly. "It is not a matter of trust, it is a matter of belief, you still have so much to see, so much to learn before you will be able to even remotely accept the truth. So, until then, I ask you to advise me, protect me, but most importantly trust me, and my decisions."

"I will, Your Grace."

** 000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000 **

Rather than ride all the way from the North down to the Reach the had journeyed to White Harbor where Lord Wyman was more than eager to host 'Ned's girl' and to take their horses off their hands., new ones could always be purchased when they arrived their destination. To their great fortune Lord Wyman even had three ships that were destined for Oldtown, ships that according to him always stopped at first Dragonstone and then Sunspear to pick up provisions and fresh water, which suited her and Arthur perfectly.

During the nights, they spoke in hushed voices about the future, and in Arthur's case, about the past. With her now knowing the truth, he felt safer at telling more about her family, her father and grandfather in particular. While Aerys would never regain an inch of respect in her eyes, she could sympathize with him _slightly_. It could not have been easy for him, with all the misfortune he and Rhaella shared with so many of their children dying, either from birth, still in the womb, or a few weeks or moons after their birth. Also having Tywin Lannister as Hand couldn't have helped.

Normally, she could have appreciated having a man of Tywin's talents as Hand. But the man had no humility what so ever, he had ambitions far beyond his station, and did nothing to quell the rumors about his services as Hand, and in all likelihood encouraged them. So yes, she could see how Aerys had eventually succumbed to madness and paranoia. Another thing they spoke of often was dragons, more specifically Arthur's worries. And this evening it was about how to keep it all hidden.

"Your Grace, dragons are not pets." Arthur protested as yet another of his arguments had just been shot down.

"Of course, they are not. They are magnificent beasts of war, and almost as intelligent as women, certainly more intelligent than men."

Arthur rolled his eyes at the jab. "And just how do you intend to keep a dragon hidden?"

"Easy. We stay off the main roads, travel by night, make sure it is fed. A few instructions and the dragon will know to keep itself hidden from others."

"But _how_?" he asked, _yet_ again.

Visenya sighed. "For the first few weeks it will be small enough to stay in a cage which can be covered up. During this time, it will require roasted meat five times a day. A moon's turn, two at the most and it will be capable of flight. At this point it is ready to hunt on its own, it is, from that point on fully capable of taking care of itself, it will also at that point be intelligent to understand and obey my instructions, like staying out of sight unless called for, not to hunt livestock or men when it gets large enough to do so."

"And how will it stay hidden when it has become that large?"

"Do you have any idea how high a dragon can fly Ser?" she asked Arthur, who had to admit that he did not. "Dragons can easily fly for hours or days at a time in the cover of clouds, and then, like a bird of prey it'll swoop down with tremendous speed and accuracy to snatch up its prey. They are, I think I read the term 'power gliders' once, in that with but a few beats of their wings they can simply glide through the air for hours, only really pumping their wings to pick up speed. So, if when we travel by day it'll glide through the sky, high enough that anyone who does happen to cat a glimpse will simply think it to be another bird."

"I suppose there is no dissuading you is there?"

Visenya smiled. "No Ser, I am quite set with my plans."

When they finally reached Dragonstone Visenya was almost giddy. It had been four and ten years since she had last set foot in her home, and to see the Baratheon banners sway back and forth in the wind was almost painful. Seeing the red priestess stand in the town center preaching her vile faith was worse.

"Who is that?" Visenya asked as she pointed out a woman with abnormally large ears who was listening to the crimson haired priestess with rapture, one of the few who did fortunately, and Visenya felt a wave of pride and warmth for the people on the island who still kept faith in only one thing really, and that was dragons.

"I'd say that is the Lady Selyse." Arthur admitted. "I see no reason for any other woman to be accompanied by Baratheon guardsmen, and she does have the Florent ears."

"What game is Stannis playing that he lets a red priestess of all things stand on _this_ island and preach her vile faith?"

"Stannis doesn't give a fuck, bloody traitor that he is." one of the commoners spoke as he spat angrily on the ground.

"Aye." another man agreed, "Gone to the dogs this place has, ever since good Queen Rhaella died birthing her daughter."

"I take it none here are pleased at having a Baratheon ruling the island then."

"Se skoros iksis ziry naejot ao pār? Iksi mirre pazavor naejot se zaldrīzoti kesīr." one of the men surprised her with speaking defiantly in High Valyrian, and from his finer clothes and clear Valyrian features, Visenya guessed that he was probably the town Mayor or another position of authority, he was definitely a dragon seed, or descended from one, mayhap a bastard uncle, he was too old to have come from her father's loins, and Aerys had at least had enough mistresses to make him a plausible father.

"Ñuha kepa's qogron emagon udrāzmi bisa tēgembōñ syt jēdri." she replied proudly, causing gasps and wide eyes from all around her as people took a closer look, many whispering with awe or had tears in their eyes, while others noticed, and recognized Ser Arthur.

"And..." the man swallowed. "And who was your father? What is your name?"

Ser Arthur looked around worry and suspicion, understandable she supposed, but this was her _home_ these were _her_ people, and she would never show fear while on Dragonstone. "Rhāegār iksis ñuha kepa. Iksan Visenya hen Targārien Lentor." she told them.

"Welcome home my Queen," the dragon seed said with a tearstained voice as he bowed low.

"Rise." she said as she hurried to bring him up again. "I cannot reveal myself to the Realm as a whole just yet, but one day soon I will return with men and steel at my back, and **then** …I **will** take bake the keep of my fathers, until that time you all **must** keep quiet. Bow, scrape and pay lip service to the Usurper's brother, and know that we will have the last laugh."

A low chorus of 'Aye's' met her ears as men nodded with determination.

"I do have a few questions however." she said with a smile as the dragon seed led her away from the main square and into the largest building in the town, which served as both harbor warehouse and census office.

"I will gladly answer all your questions, but first, I am Vaelun, harbor master on Dragonstone."

"I am pleased to have met you." Visenya said calmly while permitting the man to place a reverent kiss on her hand. "The _priestess_." she almost spat the word out. "How long has she been here on, and where does she lodge?"

Vaelun obviously shared her disgust as he spat on his own floor. "She arrived a fortnight ago and has been preaching her vile faith in the town square ever since. A few of the younger lads almost started to believe her but we've set them straight. Currently she lodges with old Tom, who runs the tap house, but who knows how longer that will be for."

Explain?" Visenya snapped.

"The Lady Selyse has been completely taken with her, she has even invited her into the castle itself to dine with her on three occasions this last week."

" _Abomination._ " Visenya hissed in disgust. "That bitch of a Florent who cannot even produce her own husband a single son, dares to sully the keep of my fathers with that eastern filth…" she looked closely at Vaelun, perhaps a test was in order. "If I were to ask, how many men could you mobilize in a day?"

"Perhaps eight hundred men and boys from the town, and half the garrison. Give me three days and I could have as much as five hundred more from the various hamlets and little town on the other side of the isle."

"Half the garrison." Arthur asked in surprise.

"Oh yes, Stannis brought a good hundred men or so with him, including a number of Knights, and his wife brought another fifty Florent men-at-arms. The rest of the garrison are proper sons of Dragonstone, we know where our loyalties lie."

"Excellent." Visenya told him, "but for the nonce I require an even dozen. Men who can keep their mouths shut."

"I know just the types." Vaelun said with a proud smile.

"Good, you have until nightfall to gather them. Once you are certain the **abomination** is asleep I want you to club her unconscious and bring her to me, bound and gagged. I myself shall await you all at the mine entrance by the eastern shore."

** 000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000 **

It was perhaps an hour or two past midnight when twelve men found them near a small hole in the mountainside, right where the sea meets the shore, and between them they were carrying a tied-up bundle of red. "You made it, good." Visenya nodded approvingly as she ignited a torch with a snap of her finger. Soon after, another five torches were lit and divvied up between them and then they entered the small entrance to the mine.

It was obvious that the mine hadn't seen any use in centuries, and though it had been a long time since she herself had been down here she still knew her way through the winding tunnels filled with jagged formations of razor sharp dragonglass, which reflected the torchlight into a kaleidoscope of color all around them. After almost another hour's walk Visenya halted their party in front of an insignificant piece of cave wall, that is until with a muttered incantation that none of the others could hear the illusion briefly ended, and where before it had been just another piece of dirt and razor-sharp rocks there now stood a thick circular door of steel, with no lock, no hinges nor even a handle.

With a quick cut to her hand she smeared the blood on the door and to the complete shock of the rest of the party said; "Come," and then walked right through the door as if it wasn't even there. Now Arthur had seen a lot of shit over the years, and he trusted the young woman who he loved as if she was his own daughter, but to see her just walk through a solid door or wall… Some of the others didn't share his disbelief, or rather the faith they had in the Targaryens was so strong it bordered on religious fervor, and seeing one after another of them disappear through the wall Arthur shrugged and followed.

The Room they entered wasn't large at all. In the center stood a large altar with a depression in the middle large enough to hold a large man, with three circular plinths surrounding it. One on each side of where a person's head would rest, with a last one at the base where the feet would be, and Visenya was already scurrying back and forth. Two twin plinths both held a censer with incense that had already been lit, filling the room with a sweet smell, while the last plinth, which was the lowest of the three, slightly shorter in height than the altar itself already held a dark red dragon egg.

"Secure her," Visenya spoke with a cold tone that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. Rarely had she ever spoken with that tone, but when she did, people _obeyed_ , as was evident as the men quickly put the struggling red priestess on the altar and secured the human shaped bars over her to prevent her escape.

Arthur shuffled in discomfort. He like everyone had heard tales of the original Visenya, and his own little 'Senya had admitted to knowing the forbidden arts, but to bear witness in person… that was not something that he had ever thought he would do. The hissed incantation that Visenya spoke was such a surprise that he almost jumped. When the altar let out a blast of red light he actually did jump, he probably swore as well, and almost returned the fish he'd eaten earlier when he saw the result of the ritual that had been enacted.

Of the red priestess, there was nothing left but bones covered in ratty red robes, and a tarnished ruby choker. The rest of her was pouring out from a small hole at the end of the altar in a continuous stream of blood. Each drop of the life-giving fluid hit the top of the dragon egg and ran down its side to pool underneath it in a deep cup that had been carved into the plinth of black stone. Once the last drop had escaped the altar Visenya stepped closer and raised her arms before speaking another incantation in High Valyrian.

" **Ondoso Perzys Ānogār iksā āzma,"** she spoke harshly and then blood pooling beneath the egg ignited in a furious blaze of blue-violet flames. At first, Arthur thought he was going to die it was so hot, but eventually the heat disappeared and so too did the flames. Once his eyes readjusted to the darker light he felt his knees hit the ground as he, like the twelve other men stared in awe at Visenya, and the red dragon that perched on her shoulder…

** AN: **

**I felt this was as good a place as any to stop. This was supposed to just be a fun little oneshot/challenge, but ended up to be a monster of over 13k words, and I definitely like the idea of continuing this, especially since I seem to just dig myself deeper into a hole with Bloody Wolf, rather than try and climb back up again.**

**As alwyas a big thank you to my wonderful beta Tallman7 for keeping up with me.**

** Translations: **

**Māzigon naejot nyke zōbrie mandia: Come to me Dark Sister.**

**Se skoros iksis ziry naejot ao pār? Iksi mirre pazavor naejot se zaldrīzoti kesīr: And what is it to you then? we are all loyal to the dragons here.**

**Ñuha kepa's qogron emagon udrāzmi bisa tēgembōñ syt jēdri: My father's line has ruled this island for years**

**Rhāegār iksis ñuha kepa. Iksan Visenya hen Targārien Lentor: Rhaegar was my father. I am Visenya of House Targaryen.**

**Ondoso Perzys Ānogār iksā āzma: By fire and blood you are born.**

**Cheers.**

**Daemon Belaerys.**

 

 

For those wondering what I imagine Visenya to look like after she and Ser Arthur has left Winterfell to visit Dragonstone and the Reach.


	2. 'Senya's Kings, Petyr's Reckoning

**Attention!**

**A priestess of the Lord of Light was dispatched to Westeros by his most benevolent High Priest Benerro from the Red Temple in Volantis to spread the Light of R’hllor and deliver disclaimers.**

 

**This priestess, recognizable by her red robes, long crimson hair and fervent belief in the Lord of Light was last seen on the island of Dragonstone. Rich rewards will be given to any man or woman who delivers credible tips that leads to her discovery.**

 

 

**Ahem...enough about that. On with the story.**

 

 

**Outskirts of Pentos, The Old Bull.**

 

“I hope this pans out Your Grace,” Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower spoke to his King Viserys II Targaryen as they watched the brutish horselord Khal Drogo lead his new and terrified bride away.

 

“It’s not as though I had a better choice _Ser_ ,” Viserys snarled angrily. “Four and ten years I’ve had to dodge the Usurper’s knives, guesting with wealthy Magisters, Archons, sellswords and Gods knows what else and what have I to show for it? Two Knights past their prime and half a hundred young fools eager for gold and glory.”

 

Gerold held in a huff of irritation. Sure he _was_ getting on in years, and Oswell himself was hardly a young firebrand any longer, but there was a reason why both of them had been on Aerys’ Kingsguard, the very same reason for why they even _had_ other men serving the King, or why the King was still alive for that matter.

 

“You are correct of course Your Grace,” Oswell piped in, which fortunately cooled Viserys’ anger.

 

“Of course I am,” Viserys stated haughtily. “With Khal Drogo’s army I will retake my Throne, and rescue my niece from her uncle at the same time, she will be my Queen,” a light lit up in Viserys’ eyes, causing both Oswell and Gerold to share a look of concern.

 

Ever since the pair of them had informed Rhaella and Viserys of the existence of Visenya Targaryen, the daughter born to Rhaegar and Lyanna , Viserys had been dead set on ‘saving’ her from her dreadful traitor uncle and then make her his Queen. Rhaella herself, not knowing if she was carrying a boy or girl had agreed that to wed the pair of them would be for the best.

 

Ever since, he or Oswell had shared what little news could be gathered about Ned Stark’s ‘bastard’. While the opportunity to gather any information from the North was slim, they did occasionally meet Northerners, merchants for the most part, whom, after being plied with some ale were eager to let their tongues wag, and slowly but surely they had gotten titbits of information about the sole Targaryen remaining in Westeros, and to be honest, Gerold was not positive.

 

‘Lady Snow’ was said to be the most beautiful, and cold woman in all the North. As harsh and unyielding as winter itself, and as skilled with a blade as the woman she was named after. She was said to have torn off the arm of the Heir to the Iron Islands before her seventh nameday. Before her twelfth she was said to have taken the cocks of a dozen men eager for her hand. So beautiful was she, that men would offer all that they had for but a single glance from her.

 

No doubt boasts and tall tales, highly exaggerated, but every rumour had a kernel of truth, and the one rumour that everyone seemed to agree with was that she was gifted with the sword, and that she refused the hand of any man who could not best her in feat of arms… which boded ill for Viserys. Despite all the training he and Oswell had tried to put their King through, Viserys just didn’t have the talent, nor the inclination to learn, for that matter he did not have the tolerance for pain either, for every bruise he had suffered in the training yard, he had made certain that young Daenerys suffered the same at his own hand, which was why Oswell and He decided to end Viserys’ training, and now the Princess was lost to them forever, sold to a brutish horselord.

 

“I am certain the Princess Visenya longs for the day,” Oswell stated as seriously as he could, and Gerold made himself a mental note to smack his younger brother of the Kingsguard at the first opportunity, there was _far_ too much sarcasm in Oswell’s tone.

 

“Quiet Oswell,” Gerold glared at the Knight. “Your Grace, we should not mention the Princess where _others_ can hear,” he told his King, while nodding subtly towards Illyrio Mopatis who was returning to his seat beside the King.

 

“I hope I do not interrupt Your Grace?” Illyrio questioned as he looked at the three of them with inquisitive eyes. No doubt having caught Gerold’s warning look, or Viserys’ brief flash of fear at the thought of his ‘beloved’ Visenya being discovered before she could be ‘freed’.

 

“Not at all Illyrio,” Viserys said with a careless wave of his hand. “Oswell has had a little too much to drink is all.”

 

“Muh apologies Yer Grace,” Oswell muttered as he swayed drunkenly on his feet, ever the consummate actor he was, and if he didn’t possess one of the finest sword arms in Westeros, Gerold suspected that Oswell would have become a very rich mummer.

 

“Very well Your Grace,” thankfully Illyrio realized the futility of trying to weasel out anything else. “I have spoken with the Khal’s Bloodriders and if you are still intending of making the journey with them, the Khalasar will leave tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll not leave until I have received what I bought Illyrio, Khal Drogo’s army, for my own sister as a bride.”

 

“Of course,” Illyrio simpered. “And what of your own bride Your Grace? I imagine there most be plenty of suitable selections for you in Westeros.”

 

“There is only **one**!” Viserys snarled as the full madness of his father took hold of him. “And she is none of your concern.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Illyrio bowed and spread his arms wide in supplication, reminding Gerold of the Spider, Varys oddly enough.

 

“Do not wake the dragon again,” Viserys snarled as he rose from his chair. “Hightower, Whent, come we must start to plan the invasion.”

 

With a barely restrained sigh Gerold and Oswell both followed their King, unkowingly sharing the same thought. ‘ _I should have stayed with Arthur,_ ’

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

Unknown to his two brothers across the sea, Arthur had similar thoughts, only he was wishing that he had gone with Oswell and Gerold. Not that he had ever regretted a single moment spent with Visenya, but these last few weeks…

 

He had discovered a few new dislikes if not outright hatreds in the world. Since the end of the Rebellion he’d had a fervent hatred for Tywin Lannister and his dogs, and the Usurper Robert Baratheon was not much better. Now, he had also discovered and absolute _loathing_ for ships. The merchant vessel they were on was riding back and forth on the waves, its motions so sickening that Visenya had actually been forced to keep vigil at his bedside for the past week.

 

That she herself seemed unaffected was just making it worse. The smirks, and mocking motherly tone as she fussed over him was adding insult to injury. All this he could have handled if it hadn’t been for those blasted pets of hers. The crimson dragon she had named Caraxes after the Bloodworm that Daemon Targaryen rode during the Dance was constantly eyeing him up like a piece of meat. His leg in particular seemed to be the young dragon’s focus, and Arthur had more than once tried to stare the overgrown bat into submission as it stared unblinkingly at his legs with drool coming out of its mouth, and despite how many times Arthur protested or warned Visenya she just brushed him off and then stroked and scratched the winged demon while offering words of praise, and Arthur _swore_ on his own mother’s grave that the dragon game him smug grins, if such a thing was possible for a dragon whenever this occurred.

 

The white direwolf wasn’t much better. While it didn’t look as though it wanted to eat Arthur any time soon, he was more than happy to take any opportunity to chew Arthur’s boots asunder, and whenever his mistress returned he accepted her words of chastisement with hung dog eyes and then moved over to _Arthur_ of all people for comfort. And for all that he told himself to resist, the eternally silent wolf just had to give him _one_ look of those soulful red eyes and then Arthur’s hands would be all over him. Scratching his ears and rubbing his neck. It was pathetic really, he was **Arthur Dayne** , Sword of the Morning, Knight of the Kingsguard and a killer of men, and yet he was held captive by a pair of animals, and his Queen, the young woman he cared for as if she was a daughter of his own seed just laughed at his predicament.

 

“There there Arthur,” Visenya’s voice was infuriatingly patronizing today. “One more day and we’ll be back on land.”

 

“A day that cannot go quickly enough,” Arthur grumbled while grudgingly petting Ghost, the damn beast had its eyes closed and tongue wagging out of its mouth.

 

“Has it been such a terrible trip?” she questioned with a sly grin. “I know Caraxes has enjoyed it.”

 

Arthur threw a distrustful look at the dragon that was simply curled up in a corner, while staring unflinchingly at Arthur’s legs. “One day he’s gonna sink his teeth into my legs as if they were simply a piece of mutton.”

 

Visenya laughed. “Caraxes knows his place,” she said as she tossed over a slab of meat at the dragon who consumed it in a single bite. “He is just playing with you.”

 

“An honour I could do without,” Arthur said with a grunt, while marvelling at the astonishing rate the dragon was growing.

 

Three short weeks before, when it was hatched it fed on small bits of meat, half the size of a man’s thumb, and now it was eating slabs of meat as big as the steaks that Wyman Manderly would consume, and this was five times a day.

 

“How swiftly will it grow?” Arthur questioned curiously.

 

“It all depends,” Visenya admitted. “With the diet I have him on, and as much time outside as possible he should be large enough to ride in a year and a half perhaps, if not sooner. Give him five years and the only danger to him will be another dragon, or a particularly lucky shot.”

 

“Truly,” Arthur asked, “I heard it took decades for a dragon to reach full size.”

 

“There is no full size for a dragon,” Visenya admitted. “My ancestor’s dragons grew slowly and much less than they should after they bowed down to the wishes of the Faith and kept them locked up. A dragon in captivity growl slowly if at all Ser.” Visenya took out another slice of meat and fed it to Ghost this time. “King Aenys and afterwards Prince Aegon’s dragon Quicksilver grew most of its size in the first four years, after that, dragons grow slowly but surely, until their death.”

 

Where _did_ Visenya have all this knowledge from? Arthur desperately wanted to know, but remembered his earlier conversation with her on this matter. “So it’ll be at least five years before you feel that you can safely use him in battle then?”

 

Visenya snorted. “Hardly. Just because it can be wounded with a thrown spear or a crossbow bolt does not make it into a less effective weapon of war Ser. A dragon with a ride on top is a symbol, and what it lacks in sheer armour is more than made up for in speed and manoeuvrability, and it is still capable of melting steel as well as stone.”

 

“Forgive me Your Grace,” Arthur said with a nod of deference at the sudden steel in Visenya’s voice. It was that steel which always convinced Arthur if ever he had doubts that he had made the correct decision all those years ago in the Tower of Joy.

 

“There is nothing to forgive Ser, to you dragons are still but tales and legends.”

 

“Thank you Your Grace.”

 

A long moment of silence followed as both of them were lost in their own thoughts. Arthur spent his time petting Ghost who had by now finished his meal and laid his head in Arthur’s lap, while Visenya was fiddling with a long cord of leather and steel that Arthur suspected would become a whip when she was done, though he could have gone without the occasional muttered phrase of High Valyrian, and brief moment of intense heat in the cabin as whatever spell she laid into it took hold.

 

“Have you decided where we should start?” Arthur asked. They had discussed this a few times, but Visenya had as of yet to come to a decision, as they had several opportunities to pursue.

 

“The ship is putting in at Oldtown at any rate so we might as well hope that a tourney is to be held in short order, if not, Ser Colin Florent’s nameday is only a week away, and we can easily reach Brightwater Keep in that time, just remember to have the correct armour,” she finished drily, and Arthur swallowed a retort.

 

He hadn’t worn armour since he rode north with Visenya, and after four and ten years one could forgive him for not thinking when he donned his old suit, still embossed with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. A mistake that they caught quickly at any rate, and while he had despaired at doing so he had packed it away and purchased a simple, but sturdy and functional breastplate in White Harbour, he had since, at Visenya’s urging painted every piece of his armour black, and she as his ‘squire’ had done the same.

 

“A mystery Knight winning every tourney he can in the Reach ought to send tongues wagging,” he admitted with a grin.

 

“One?” Visenya arched one of her delicate eyebrows, dark amusement shining in her eyes. “I hope you don’t think that you’ll be the only one riding Ser?”

 

“Your Grace… surely you don’t!”

 

Visenya held up a hand to forestall him. “You’ve taught me well Ser,” she admitted. “And while I’ll need a few years yet before I’ll beat you with a sword, I am just as fine with a lance as you, and better on a horse.”

 

“Aye that is true Your Grace, **but** if demands are given to show your face, we’ll at best lose the tourney purse, at worst we’ll be arrested and hanged.”

 

Arthur watched indignation and fury race across his Queen’s face and eyes, before, to his great relief she nodded. “ _Men_ she spat angrily. Just because I have a cunt and teats instead of a cock does not mean I am any less able to cut a man open from stem to stern.”

 

“ _I_ know that Your Grace, but men as a whole have other… _sensibilities_ at what a woman should and should not do.”

 

“Oh I know…” Visenya said darkly. “And one day, I shall look forward to see each and every one of these fucking Lords humbled before the Iron Throne.”

 

Arthur shivered. While there was no similarity between Visenya and Mad Aerys, there was something undeniably… Targaryen about her moods sometimes. But while Aerys had been full of hot raging fire that disappeared at the blink of an eye, Visenya had an anger in her that was more like slowly burning embers, embers that could blossom into a roaring firestorm of wildfire that consumed anything in its path. The same rage, and strength that though carefully hidden, sometimes showed itself in both her father and particularly her grandmother.

 

Most people fell to the image Rhaella presented to the world, of a kindly soft woman, demure and terrified of her husband. Those people Arthur knew, were fools. They had never seen how Rhaella had coldly ordered a washer woman burned to death for daring to strike Prince Viserys when she thought his mother was not looking. Had never even heard of the five men in Flea Bottom she caught raping a young girl, whom she had gelded and impaled alive on stakes, and though he had only heard the story from Gerold, he knew that when Rhaella had discovered that one of her Ladies, and the Hand’s own wife Joanna Lannister had been sleeping with Aerys she had been _terryfing_ in her wrath.

 

Joanna Lannister had been stripped naked before her husband and every one of the Ladies of court and whipped thrice for each moment of infidelity, and then shipped off to Casterly Rock with the words, ‘I’ll not suffer whores with dreams above their station in my court,’ even Tywin had remained silent, not a one of the witnesses had ever dared speak of the incident ever again, and Arthur took Gerold’s words to heed, ‘no matter how demure, a dragon is still a dragon Ser,’ he had told Arthur after that tale, and Arthur saw Rhaella’s strength and fire in her grand daughter tenfold every day.

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

**Small Council Chamber, King’s Landing, Ned.**

 

It had taken some time, both to get situated properly into the Red Keep, as well as to try and get a start on the Crown’s financial expenses, but Ned had _finally_ gotten at least some headway. He knew roughly to whom the Crown owed money to, and how much had to be paid annually. Getting Robert to actually come to a meeting of the Small Council, the second proper one since the day he ahd arrived proved to be harder, it was only when he promised Robert that ‘Yes, he would start arrangements for a tourney and yes he would go out hunting with him,’ that Robert actually agreed to come to the blasted meeting.

 

“Well, we’re all here Ned,” Robert said surly as he took a gulp from the large pitcher of wine he had before him. “What is so damn important?”

 

“It’s about the tourney Your Grace,” Ned said patiently as he gave a nod to Janos Slynt, the Lord Commander of the City Watch.

 

“The city is almost in turmoil Your Grace,” Slynt started. “Last night alone we had five murders, three rapes and a drunken horserace.”

 

Robert looked amazed for a second before laughing. “Who won?” he asked with a snigger.

 

“Robert…” Ned closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Its all the extra people here for the tourney Your Grace,” Janos protested. “We simply don’t have the manpower.”

 

“The costs of the tourney must always be discussed Your Grace,” Littlefinger said.

 

“SEVEN HELLS,” Robert shouted. “Not this again.”

 

For once in his life Ned felt a measure of glee at someone else’s expense as he gave Littlefinger a rather wolfish smile. “Commander Slynt, where did you say the prevalent majority of the crimes have taken place?”

 

Slynt started to sweat and pulled at his collar, most eager to avoid answering the question, but with little choice considering where he was and who he was with. “Most of them were on the street of silk My Lord,” he finally admitted.

 

“The street of silk,” Ned said triumphantly. “It seems only fair to me Your Grace, that with the endless amount of extra trouble and customers in these whorehouses that they should foot some of the costs of the tourney do you not?”

 

Baelish glared angrily at Ned, while Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Explain Ned.”

 

“Well…” Ned searched for the right words. “It is obvious that the majority of the city’s current woes can be attributed to the whorehouses, as such, perhaps, for the duration of the week leading up to, during and a week after the tourney might we not charge an increased tax on the whorehouses, as justification of putting extra guards on the street of silk.”

 

“Your Grace…” Baelish tried to interject just as Robert slammed a meaty fist down on the table.

 

“A CAPITAL IDEA,” he roared. “Post a few extra men and take, shall we say a fifty percent tax? Yes that’ll do it, Littlefinger see to it.”

 

Baelish for a moment looked horrified at the amount of coin he stood to lose, just long enough for Ned to interject again.

 

“I’ll have my own men see to it Your Grace, with perhaps a few of Lord Renly’s men if he agrees.”

 

“Oh you’ll have them,” Renly said, his voice betraying his amusement, any discomfort to Littlefinger was music to Renly’s ears.

 

“Traditionally it is the Master of Coin who is responsible for collecting taxes,” Pycelly interjected with his weak stumbling voice.

 

“Aye,” Ned agreed as he slammed a book heavily onto the table. “But I’ve gone over the books, for quite some time back, and it seems as Lord Baelish’s tax collectors have not done their job’s properly for years.”

 

“What’s this?” Robert snarled angrily as he grabbed the book while Baelish started grow pale. Quite some time was spent in silence as Robert for once in his life actually deigned to ‘count the coppers’ as it were, studying the several lines that Ned had highlighted. “Did you know about these fucking thieves?” Robert snarled furiously at Baelish as he studied the conclusions Ned had written down, all of them quite serious. Such as an inordinate amount of money spent on wine, food, whores, or tourneys. True, everything had its cost, but not even Robert was foolish enough to believe that a bottle of Arbor Gold cost the same as a suit of plate armour. Furthermore, the amount of taxes that had been recorded was significantly less than what had actually been brought in. “That old fucker…” Robert mumbled, almost impressed when he came across the last few pages that Ned had deliberately left at the end.

 

“Robert?” Renly asked.

 

“Tywin,” Robert grunted. “Seems like he made himself quite the nice deal during the time he was Hand to Aerys.”

 

“Yo-Your Grace,” Pycelle started.

 

“Shut it Pycelle,” Robert glared at the old Grand Maester who folded like a deck of cards. “According to this, Tywin and the entire Westerlands have paid less in taxes in three decades, than the Reach does in a single year.”

 

“I thought that might interest you,” Ned said. “I’ve tried to do the sums, had to bring in a few extra to be sure, but we are reasonably certain that the Westerlands collectively owe the crown almost three and a half million dragons in back taxes, before interest that is.”

 

Robert laughed, uproariously so. “All this time the old lion has been badgering me about the gold I owe him and never seem to repay…” he paused to take another bout of laughter. “I’ll bloody well write him myself, and tell him that he better pay his taxes before long.”

 

Out of everyone, only Pycelle and Baelish seemed to not like this idea, and Ned found himself thanking Ser Arthur who had told him of that particular scam of Tywin’s, Aerys just never cared, which is why nothing was ever done about it.

 

“Now about these tax collectors,” Ned continued, hopefully Robert would prove as pliable every time, though he doubted it.

 

“They’ve been stealing from the Crown, so take their hands or send them to the bloody Wall of yours.”

 

“The Wall is always in need of more men,” Ned mused, as much to himself as to every one else, as he thought about the near two hundred men he had locked up down in the black cells that very moment.

 

“Good,” Robert said before rounding on Baelish. “I’ve half a mind to just take your head right this very moment,” he snarled as the diminutive man paled rapidly, “but I won’t. You’ve proved adept at finding gold, so until **you** have made up the deficit that your incompetence has made, you can consider yourself a close _personal_ friend of mine. So close that I’ll have a few men follow your every step, for your own good of course,” Robert’s smile was no less shark like than Ned’s.

 

“Also, I do believe you have a few establishments that can help pay down your debts that much quicker,” Robert turned to Varys for a moment. “Spider, get me some men to root through Baelish’s keep, inns and brothels, I want every copper that isn’t nailed down brought into the treasury.”

 

Varys’ smile was so pleased that Ned actually shivered. “It will be done Your Grace.”

 

“Now,” Robert rubbed his hands together, as if he hadn’t just ruined a man’s life. “Is there anything else? Or can we get on with the planning for the bloody tourney?”

 

“I believe that was everything Your Grace,” Ned admitted. “Now for the tourney which events did you want?”

 

“Hmm,” Robert scratched his thick beard and multiple chins. “Start easy, Archer competition on the first day, open for lowborn as well as nobility. A mounted melee the next day, four heats of fifty competitors with the five best ones from each heat going on to the final, no official teams of course, and two days for the joust to end it all.”

 

Ohh,” Varys tittered as Ned dutifully marked down the particulars. “Perhaps the Black Knight and his mystery squire will grace us with their presence.”

 

“Who?” Robert blinked, while Ned got a sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

“You’ve not heard Your Grace?” Varys tittered.

 

“Some mystery Knight has been tearing up the Reach, winning jousts and melees all over the place,” Renly said. “Always the same story, he and his squire arrive the day of the tourney clad all in black, decimate the competition and as soon as he has the tourney purse in hand they vanish, even gotten a bit of a following, some odd twenty Knights or men at arms are following them around by the last time I spoke with Ser Loras.”

 

Everyone dutifully kept from rolling their eyes. Renly and Loras’ ‘friendship’ was so common knowledge that even Ned knew the two were fucking eachother.

 

“And no one knows who he is?” Robert asked amazed.

 

“It’s poor form to ask a mystery Knight to unveil himself brother,” Renly protested. “Besides, it adds to his mystery, and gives the smallfolk something to talk about rather than complain about taxes.

 

“And what about this squire then? What makes him so bloody special that he needs seperate mentioning?”

 

“He got himself a bit of a reputation,” Renly said with admiration colouring his tone. “Came across three Knights sworn to Ashford beating on Mathis Rowan’s youngest boy Horas. In the blink of an eye the Black Squire laid into them with a blade of Valyrian Steel. Cut their armour off of them where they stood and apparently beat them black and blue afterwards.”

 

Robert laughed. “Sounds like someone we should keep an eye on. Lad’s got a bright future ahead of him if he can do that to seasoned Knights while still only a squire, now if we don’t have anything I’m leaving, I need to fuck something on two legs and drink more wine,” Robert said with his usual boisterous laugh, “Barristan, stay with Baelish until Renly can organize a cadre of trusted guards to follow him around, and make it sharpish Renly, I want Ser Grandfather back before too long,” Robert grinned at his younger brother as he gave him a harsh noogie that Renly bore with defeated familiarity.

 

“I am most impressed that you ferreted out Baelish’s game My Lord Hand,” Varys told Ned with his usual calm effeminate voice as the other members of the Small Council filtered out of the room.

 

“You have your birds Varys, while I have my own sources.” Truthfully, Ned had been as shocked as the next man when he suddenly started to receive small messages and notes from a variety of people, with the vast majority of them written in Ser Arthur’s hand, messages that had easily followed him from Winterfell to King’s Landing.

 

“One might wonder how or why the Honourable Ned Stark got himself a spy network.”

 

Ned shrugged. “Robert has called upon me to serve the Realm as Hand, and I intend to do the best of it.”

 

“And a fine job you are doing indeed,” Varys agreed. “Let us just hope that you get to continue to do so.”

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

“He’s good,” Ser Arthur stated calmly while doing his best to check the straps of his armour on his own, Visenya having quite forgotten her ‘duties’ as squire when she laid eyes on Loras Tyrell.

 

“Huh?” she asked as Arthur’s voice finally managed to shake her out of her funk and almost caused her to swear out loud at her hormones suddenly kicking in. At least her face was hidden by the helmet she wore so Arthur couldn’t see her blush.

 

“I said he is good,” Arthur said again, and Visenya almost snarled in anger. There was definitely amusement in his tone, and Visenya had her suspicions as to why he was amused as well.

 

“Shut it,” she grumbled angrily while Arthur laughed.

 

“I don’t need to play the worried uncle do I?”

 

‘I want to sit on his face,’ she mumbled to herself as she imagined the young man beneath her with his tongue up her cunt. Not marriage potential, there was far too little steel and too much arrogance in him. But he _was_ pretty, pretty and well built enough that she could easily see the merit of bringing him to her bed for a few nights to break him.

 

“What was that?” Arthur asked sharply as he turned his glance towards Loras Tyrell who was chatting with Sansa in the stands.

 

“I said I want you to beat in his face,” Visenya said hurriedly.

 

Arthur looked at her closely with narrowed eyes, though the slight smirk on his lips told her that he probably heard her the first time. “Aye I can see that. His dirty trick with the mare cost us the tourney purse, but even so, I would be hard pressed to beat him.”

 

“Surely you jest!” Visenya stated.

 

“On a horse with a lance, that young man is probably one of the best in all of Westeros, with a sword however…” he trailed off.

 

“You beat him in the tourney at Ashford,” Visenya argued as she resolutely turned her gaze away as Loras donned his helmet once more, no man had any business of looking so damn tempting.

 

“Aye I did, and it was a close thing too as the blood in my stool for the following weeks proved, probably why he went with the mare in heat this time.”

 

Visenya grimaced, the sudden and wholly unwelcome attraction that had blossomed towards Loras died a sudden and violent death. Sure he was still one of the finest examples of a male specimen she had ever laid eyes on, but to be such a sore loser as to employ cheap tricks in a tourney for mere gold or glory… Hells, she’d sooner fuck a Dornish Prince than someone like Loras Tyrell.

 

“What in the seven hells is that fool wearing?” Visenya asked suddenly as a young Vale Knight by the name of Ser Hugh entered the lists. The armor was new and shiny, no shield or gorget, and his helmet was clearly something suited for a melee rather than the joust.

 

“He’s not long for this world if he wears armour like that to a joust,” Arthur agreed, and as if the Gods had been listening Ser Hugh fell of his horse, with a big splinter from the Mountain’s lance in his throat.

 

“Easy Arthur, we’ll get our chance,” Visenya said as she laid a calming hand on Ser Arthur, while simultaneously running her mind through all the nasty rituals and spells she could lay on him if only she got ahold of his blood, or the man himself for that matter.

 

“I feel as though I should be telling you that,” Arthur replied.

 

“I’ve had years to plot my vengeance Arthur, I can wait a little longer, but if we ever get a chance to take him… then his life ends.”

 

“I just can’t wait to get out of this stinking shithole, or this blasted armour for that matter.”

 

Visenya could agree with him. King’s landing truly stunk like a sewer, obviously Maegor hadn’t finished the city, according to her designs, maybe not even the Red Keep had been made like she had designed it. A trip to check out the secret passageways could easily verify that, but until she was in actual control of the city that would be somewhat hard to arrange.

 

A few more tilts happened until finally the Semi finals came around. The first round was between the Kingslayer Ser Jaime Lannister against his nephew’s sworn sword Sandor Clegane, that ended in Clegane’s victory and advancement to the finals, and then it was Ser Loras facing the Mountain Gregor Clegane. The brute who had murdered Visenya’s ‘older’ siblings.

 

As he had done against Arthur, Loras once again used his mare, to such a great effect that Clegane was thrown from his saddle during the first tilt. The giant threw off his helmet, his cruel face was red with fury. “SWORD!” he yelled furiously towards his squire.

 

“Arthur,” Visenya said with a feeling of anticipation as she watched Clegane’s squire come running with a large greatsword, easily as tall as a grown man.

 

Arthur turned to one of the men at arms they had been gifted by Lord Rowan after Visenya saved his son from a vicious beating. “bow,” Arthur said quietly and shortly after accepted one while Visenya received another.

 

“We only get one chance at this,” Arthur told her as he laid an arrow on the string in preparation for the draw, just as Clegane beheaded his own horse and started to walk determinately towards Ser Loras who was still prancing around and waving his arm victoriously in the air.

 

“I won’t miss,” Visenya replied as she did her best to control her breathing, just as Clegane swung his massive sword at Ser Loras.

 

Impressively enough Ser Loras actually managed to react in time and raise his shield, even though the force from the blow itself sent him right off his horse and onto the ground. Clegane raised his sword for a second swing, as Visenya took aim, released the breath she held, and vaguely she noticed that Arthur released his arrow a mere moment after she herself did.

 

The crowd as a whole seemed to hold its breath as the two arrows flew towards their mark. Even Clegane himself seemed stunned for just the briefest moment before his eyes widened in shock, and for probably the first time in his life **fear**. His sudden scream of panicked anguish was music to Visenya’s ears. Both arrows had found their mark, Arthur’s arrow had gone into his jugular while her own had entered his mouth and gone out the back of his skull. For a whole minute Tywin’s monster writhed in pain and panic on the ground before he, finally fell still.

 

Silence reigned absolute before one after another the multitudes of smallfolk who had showed up to watch the tourney started screaming, clapping and hollering in triumph. In their eyes, Clegane was a symbol of the horror that had been visited upon them during the sack. The man who had killed Elia and Aegon and gotten away without punishment, to the smallfolk, this felt like divine judgement.

 

“We have to go,” Arthur said worriedly as he could see the reddening face of Queen Cersei, and the number of goldcloaks who were walking towards them, spears in hand.

 

“Aye,” Visenya agreed as she jumped onto her horse. “Shame we can’t bring his head with us.”

 

“Oh leave that to me,” Arthur said with a laugh as he drew his spare sword and raced towards the goldcloaks, Royal stand and the completely befuddled Ser Loras. In a move that once again reminded Visenya that Arthur was by far still the better with a sword between them, Arthur swung his sword and neatly decapitated Clegane in a single swing, turned his horse around and impaled Clegane’s head on the tip of his sword before the head even touched the ground.

 

“WE RIDE, FOR FIRE AND BLOOD!” Visenya shouted at their few retainers and sped her horse through the maze of tourney pavilions, while the screams of Cersei, the goldcloaks and the usurper followed them.

 

To their fortune the tourney grounds themselves were outside the city, and by the time the Usurper had managed to rally soldiers to pursue them, they had already reached the docks, and to their even greater fortune found a Dornish captain, who agreed to take them before half of his crew had even returned once he learned what they had done, and exactly whose head they were carrying…

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

**The Rock, Tywin Lannister**

 

“Would you mind saying that again Kevan?” Tywin said calmly as he tried to process what his younger brother had just told him.

 

“Clegane is dead,” Kevan said, still as shocked as he had been when he came into Tywin’s solar.

 

Tywin felt his anger roar, if he  _ ever _ found out who deprived him of his most valuable asses he would make the Rains seem like a mummer’s play in comparison. “How?” he asked as calmly as he could, even so, his voice still trembled from his anger.

 

“From what I hear, Clegane lost his wits after Ser Loras Tyrell defeated him in the semi-finals. He beheaded his own horse first, and then tried to do the same to Ser Loras, but before he could finish the job a mystery Knight and his squire killing him with a pair of fired arrows.”

 

Tywin shook his head. Even he, as a rational man knew that anyone could be killed, it was still a hard concept to grasp the idea of Gregor Clegane dying from a pair of fired arrows. “Anything else?”

 

Kevan shuffled slightly. “The Knight took Clegane’s head with him and fled, and one more thing…” Kevan hesitated slightly. “The squire shouted Fire and Blood as they left.”

 

Tywin frowned. “Targaryen loyalists,” he said angrily. 

 

“The King is apparently in full rage, not even Ned Stark can keep him calm.”

 

Tywin nodded. “No doubt Robert is seeing Targaryen loyalists in his soup bowl by now.”

 

“What do you want to do My Lord?”

 

Tywin stood up from his chair and walked over to his window which afforded him with a view out towards Lannisport. “Put out a bounty, ten thousand gold dragons for whoever brings me the pair, dead or alive.”

 

It will be done My Lord,” Kevan nodded.

 

“A fools errand,” Tywin admitted after a brief pause. “Even if they are no doubt already halfway to Sunspear by now there is no way that the Dornish will give them up, or reveal their identity, and even if they did… Well, not even Robert would be foolish enough to call for war.”

 

“So in the end, we do nothing?”

 

“Offering a reward is all we can do at this point,” Tywin admitted reluctantly, “oh and gather a force of men and take them to Clegane’s keep… I want his men and anyone else there to be silenced understood? When he was alive Clegane had them under control, now they are little better than animals… animals that know things that could prove damaging to House Lannister.”

 

Kevan nodded, this wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. “It will be done brother…”

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

During the entire trip Visenya had been debating back and forth if they should turn the ship around. In her mind the Dornish were not to be trusted. They were the enemy, the one province that no matter how much dragonfire they spewed upon refused to bend. It was the Dornish that had killed her little sister, leaving her alone to try and keep the rest of Westeros together while at the same time caring for a young boy suddenly bereft of his mother, and a husband who was despondent in his rage and grief, but unlike Aegon, Visenya at least had the strength to keep going, rather than locking herself away on Dragonstone.

 

It was also the Dornish who had mutilated her bastard brother Orys and his entire army. Sure she never held the close relationship with Orys that Aegon had, probably because she never saw fit to give him her affections, even though she stringed him on on several occasions, but that was her prerogative as the eldest, and she liked to think that her early flirtations with Orys had prepared the man well for his later life when suddenly all manner of men and women sought his favour for this and that matter. But yes, after Orys’ failed invasion into Dorne she and Aegon had negotiated in good faith only for the Dornish to spit them in the face by cutting off the sword hand of every man in the army before sending them home.

 

That was her experience with Dorne, however, according to Arthur things had changed. House Targaryen had been good to and for Dorne ever since Dorne was finally brought into the fold, with more than one Dornishwoman ending up as a Targaryen bride in the years after. And even if Rhaegar, and Aerys both had damaged House Targaryen’s standing in Dorne somewhat, Arthur was still certain that if it came to war the only outcome Dorne would be willing to stand behind was a Targaryen restoration, even if it was the daughter of Lyanna Stark.

 

In fact, her being the daughter would be far more helpful than if she had been born as a man according to Arthur. As a man she would have been a threat to Aegon, but as a woman, she would have been seen as a potential wife, or even second wife to either Aegon, or one of Doran’s own sons.

 

At least their tourney days were over by now.  They had made quite the tidy sum, nearly three and twenty thousand dragons in total after nine tourneys, and though the fifty thousand dragons purse for the Hand’s tourney would have been sweet, the possibility of an entire Kingdom for a single head was a better option by far.

 

“ You are certain about this?” Visenya asked for what must have been the fiftieth time as they stood in a small room just inside the gatehouse of the Water Gardens, well, Arthur was standing, Visenya was pacing back and forth angrily while her hand held onto Dark Sister’s hilt, ready to draw the blade at a moment’s notice.

 

“Your Grace, I can assure you, that even Tywin Lannister would have been allowed to walk out of here again if he had brought the head of Gregor Clegane.”

 

V isenya ceased her pacing to rub Ghost’s ears, the direwolf that was by now bigger than any dog she’d seen seemed to know her almost as good if not better than she knew herself. As was evident by how he had raced after them during their flight from King’s Landing and jumped onto the ship just as it was pulling away from the pier.

 

“ They are ready for you,” the voice of a guardsman bearing the symbol of House Martell on his doublet told her and Arthur.

 

Following the guard, Visenya was forced to admire the palace that Maron Martell had built for his bride Daenerys. Constructed out of pale pink marble, everywhere one could see there were marbled pools and blood orange trees for shade, that according to Ser Arthur was usually filled with children, both high and lowborn, but now, the palace was empty with the exception of a bare minimum of guards. Finally they stopped at the end of the largest pool and Visenya laid her eyes on the ruling Prince of Dorne.

 

Prince Doran was seated in a chair with a finely crafter walking stick of ebony at his side. Though his hair was greying and his face far more lined than his one and fifty years should be, but there was still strength in the man, of a different sort. Visenya had met many men in her years, and while Doran Martell would never again lift a spear, she could see the keen mind lurking behind his dark eyes.

 

His brother who stood at his side was a different matter all together. He seemed far younger than his forty years, with his lustrous black hair that ended in a widows peak. A finely trimmed beard, and lastly the fiery rage in his eyes actually had Visenya rub her thighs together unconsciously, there at last was a man she could see herself enjoying in bed, at the very least the fury in his eyes upon spotting her should make bedding him interesting.

 

“Ser Arthur,” Prince Doran said calmly. “You sent word from Sunspear that you needed to speak with me alone.”

 

“ Aye I did, we’ve brought a gift for you,” as soon as Arthur spoke, Visenya reached into the burlap sack she was holding and withdrew the severed head of Gregor Clegane and tossed it at Doran’s feet.

 

“Gregor Clegane, dead at mine and Arthur’s hand,” Visenya said with a cruel smile flitting across her face.

 

Oberyn almost spat in anger. “Clegane should have been  ** mine ** ,” he snarled.

 

Visenya narrowed her eyes. “I had as much a right to take his head as you  _ Prince _ Oberyn, and a duty to do so besides.”

 

“Be very careful what you say next  _ girl _ ,” the irate Prince snarled as his hands shook.

 

“Peace Oberyn,” Doran said calmly, while smiling with as much satisfaction as he possibly could. While regrettable that Clegane had not been killed by his own design, it was still justice for Aegon and Elia’s murders, and Tywin Lannister was furious like he’d rarely been before apparently.

 

“Doran, you can’t mean to… don’t you know who  _ that _ is?” he almost shouted at his older brother as he pointed a trembling finger at Visenya.

 

“Anyone who spent time around Rhaella or Rhaegar can see who her father is,” Doran said, still as calm as ever. “But you of all people should appreciate not punishing  _ or _ judging someone for whom his or her parents are.”

 

“If I may,” Visenya said as she took a step closer. “My father, was a fool who should have known better than to do what he did, my mother at least had the excuse of being a naive besotted girl who was desperate to escape her fate with a known whoremonger, and for their stupidity the Realm bled. My brother, sister and stepmother  _ murdered _ for no other reason than being the spouse or child of my father, so believe me  _ My Prince _ , I share your anger towards my father.”

 

“And now you are here,” Doran said. “Why here? And why now?”

 

“I am making my preparations to retake the Iron Throne,  ** that ** is why I brought Clegane’s head to you, and why I’ve come in person. To demonstrate that I am as hell bent on justice for my murdered siblings as you.”

 

“ And why should Dorne pledge its spears to you? Viserys is by law the rightful King is he not? And how many men do you have?”

 

“In Dorne a woman can inherit just as often as a man, why should the Iron Throne be any different?” Visenya retorted. “ ** I  ** am here, mayhap the North will pledge their banners to me, and mayhap they will stay out of it. I  ** can ** however guarantee that my own blood will not lead an army against me. The Lords of the Narrow Sea will flock to me the moment I reveal myself, As soon as I make my move Dragonstone and Stannis Baratheon will be in my custody, and from what I remember both the Reach and the Riverlands are crammed full of men who are still loyal to the Dragons.”

 

Doran nodded thoughtfully. “That still does not tell me why people would chose  _ you _ over Viserys or even Daenerys for that matter.”

 

Visenya felt a wicked grin grace her features. “First, I am here while my aunt and uncle resides across the sea, second, I’ll have Ser Arthur Dayne by my side, and the Crown of Aegon the Conqueror on my brow,  and then there is this…” Visenya let out a shrill whistle and with a piercing shriek Caraxes swept down from the dark sky and landed with a heavy ‘thump’ beside Visenya.

 

“Gods…” Oberyn and Doran’s eyes were wide in wonder as they stared at the blood red dragon that was the size of a large horse by now, with a wingspan of almost eight and ten feet.

 

Just as she had been the one to forge Dark Sister, it was Visenya who had forged her brother’s Crown, and as she had done in Winterfell with Dark Sister, so had she summoned her brother’s Crown in preparation for this. Reaching into the small satchel at her side she withdrew the ruby studded circlet of Valyrian steel and placed it onto her head. “I am Visenya Targaryen, Dragonrider and the woman who will be the first one in history to conquer and rule Westeros as Queen. No King shall I take at my side, so My Prince, will you bend the knee? Will you swear your spears and services to my disposal? Will you help me take back my  ** rightful ** Throne?”

 

Despite his brother’s protests that he should remain seated, Prince Doran painfully pushed himself out of his chair, and with his brother’s help knelt before her, with Prince Oberyn copying him a short moment after.

 

“If you  ** swear ** to help bring Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon’s murderers to justice I, Doran of the House Nymeros-Martell, Prince of Dorne swear my spears to your cause and proclaim you our rightful Queen.”

 

“Prince Oberyn, help your brother back to his chair,” Visenya waited until Doran was sat back in his chair again. “You have my word Prince Doran, that I’ll not rest until my brother, sister and stepmother have been avenged.”

 

“ Then Your Grace, the hospitality of Dorne is yours for as long as you desire it, and until you have no more need of him, I shall lend you Oberyn to use as you see fit.”

 

“As I see fit eh?” Visenya said with a sultry tone as she licked her lips, “I could think of a few things that he is ‘fit’ for at this very moment.”

 

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur shuffled uncomfortably.

 

“Oh do be quiet Arthur, surely I will be safe with Prince Oberyn?” she gave Oberyn an innocent look that hinted at  _ everything _ , a look he eagerly returned as his eyes roamed over her.

 

“Please… Your Grace, allow me to give you a small tour of the magnificent palace my ancestor built for the first Targaryen to wed into Dorne,” Oberyn said as he shot a smirk at Arthur.

 

Visenya placed her arm in the crook of Oberyn’s elbow. “Arthur you’re dismissed for the rest of the night, Oberyn will, ah, ‘take care’ of me I’m sure.”

 

Arthur looked pained, and  _ this _ close to protesting, but eventually realized the futility and nodded surly at them. “I’ll be damned if that isn’t Lyanna’s daughter,” he mumbled to Doran, as he watched Visenya and Oberyn saunter away from them.

 

**000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000**

 

**Lemon Warning! Consensual sex between a minor and an older man! Please skip if this offends you.**

 

The tour was so quick that it barely constituted as a tour at all, what with the brisk pace they kept up, she certainly couldn’t mention anything of note other than ‘pools, marble or trees’, so it took them barely ten minutes before they had entered Oberyn’s private chambers.

 

“And this are my chambers when I am here Your Grace,” Oberny said as he leant casually against a wall.

 

“Hmm,” Visenya let her eyes roam across the room, taking note of the large bed, the small indoor pool and even the richly carved oak desk and she felt a mental war rage inside of her as she struggled to decide just  _ where _ she would fuck this Dornish Prince. “ And your very own indoor pool,” Visenya said as she looked at him with heavily lidded eyes.

 

The sultry smirk that Oberyn shot in returned almost had Visenya moan with desire. “Would you like a bath Your Grace?”

 

“Hmm,” Visenya licked her lips and in a swift move tugged her shirt and tunic above her head in one swift move, leaving her teats out on display for her soon to be lover.

 

Oberyn was pleasantly surprised at her body if the widening of his eyes was anything to go by. As in her past life she had started to mature early, to Septa Catelyn’s despair. Her breasts were already quite full for her age, and the curve of her hips and narrow waist had reduced more than one man to a slobbering wreck.

 

“Oh My Prince,” Visenya breathed out in mock worry. “I cannot get my britches off, could you help me?” 

 

She barely got the words out before Oberyn punched on her. One of his hands started to tug and tear furiously at the laces of her almost too tight leather britches, while his other hand grabbed her by the neck to turn her head upwards so that her lips could meet his own descending ones.  For a brief moment she actually melted, as if she was the soft demure plaything that Rhaenys was, but in her defence, it had been  _ decades _ since she had last enjoyed a man fully, and by the gods Oberyn Martell could kiss.

 

Not that she was going to just submit meekly though, she licked, and sucked Oberyn’s tongue as if she was a high prized whore that was being paid to do so, doing her very best to try and wrestle it into submission.

 

Finally he managed to loosen the laces of her britches and hungrily yanked them down her legs. “You’re overdressed,” Visenya mumbled in between kisses as she seized his shirt and tore it open, sending buttons flying everywhere.

 

“ Patience Your Grace,” Oberyn mumbled as he bit down on her neck, sending convulsions of pain and pleasure through her, while one of his hands, his  _ gods damned _ expert hands started to stroke her cunt softly.

 

“ Fuck you,” she gasped as she gave him a sudden push, sending him into his pool on his back with a wet splash.  Emerging from beneath the water Oberyn shot her a betrayed look, that was somewhat lessened by the grin on his face. “You’re here to please me, not the other way around,” Visenya said with a smirk as she sauntered over, not at all ashamed at her nudity.

 

“We’ll see,” Oberyn said arrogantly as he waggled his eyebrows.

 

“Yes,” Visenya admitted as she knelt at the edge of the tub, a thigh on each side of Oberyn’s head. “Convince me, and I might let you lay like you want.”

 

Oberyn didn’t need prompting twice and almost dove his face into her cunt. “Fuck… me… you ‘gasp’ are too… fucking good at this.” she moaned and gasped, barely able to get a word in as Obernyn’s tongue expertly roamed through her womanhood, licking softly along the edges of her lips or penetrating deep within her as he lapped at her juices like a man dying from thirst. Every so often he would knock her off balance by taking her nub between his lips to suckle at it, or to give her the slightest of teasing bites.

 

She hadn’t been idle however while he was tortuously bringing her ever so slowly towards her peak. His chest was already sporting red lines and bite marks where she had done her best to mark him with her nails and teeth, to show him that she was the one in control. She had just slipped her right hand into his leather trousers to grasp his throbbing hard cock in her hand when the two fingers he suddenly pushed into her rear broke down every single last barrier she had.

 

Heat flooded through her as her muscles cramped and twitched in exquisite pleasure, and she was sure her screams could be hear through the entire palace, and she only dimly realized that she had painted Oberyn’s face with several squirts of her juices.

 

Still trembling she allowed Oberyn to encircle her in her arms. “Well,” Oberyn said with a husky voice as she laid soft loving kisses along his jaw. “Did I pass the test?”

 

“Oh we’re just getting started my Prince,” Visenya mumbled as she dug deep for a new font of energy, even as her body trembled in delectable protest.

 

“Oh?” Oberyn whispered in her ear, “Shall we take this to the bed then?”

 

Leaning back Visenya smirked before giving him a hard kiss, sucking as hard on his tongue as she could, the taste of herself on his tongue getting her blood flowing properly again. “See that?” she asked as she nodded towards the sturdy oak desk in a corner. “I want you to throw me over that and  ** fuck ** me until I scream my lungs out.”

 

The smouldering arousal in Oberyn’s eyes, was a marvel to behold. She would have liked to ride him into submission, but she had to admit that she was just too tired to put up a resistance after his marvellous tongue had worked her over, and she was curious to see if he could match Aegon the one time Aegon had fully and entirely  ** dominated ** her, the rage and fury he had unleashed on her in their chambers after Rhaenys’ death had been the most arousing experience of her entire life.

 

Playing his part Oberyn picked her up, and gamely accepted her bites, scratches and punches, before slamming her over the desk and using his strong arms to spread her legs. A hurried shuffling as he removed his britches later and she could feel his large cock suddenly enter her warm tight cunt.

 

“Stop, stop,” she moaned after his first thrust drove her into the desk, the edge biting into her waist.

 

“Shall I take it slow?” he asked with heavy breaths, “I’m not unused to… maids.”

 

“No,” Visenya said as she caught her breath, all while teasing him by clenching her cunt around his cock. “I can’t take you… there. I can’t risk it.”

 

“We have moon tea,” he mumbled as he nibbled on her neck.

 

“Which… is… not… perfect,” Visenya stuttered through laboured breaths as she enjoyed Oberyn’s ministrations.

 

“Have you ever had anything up there before?” Oberyn asked with concern while his finger was already caressing her rear entrance, already wet both from the water in the pool as well as her own juices.

 

“I can take it,” she mumbled as she pressed herself further onto Oberyn’s cock. “Not put your cock in my arse and  ** fuck me ** .”

 

“As My Queen commands,” Oberyn laughed. Both of them moaned at loss when Oberyn’s cock withdrew from her cunt. Teasingly he stroked the head of his cock around her fluttering rosebud before he placed it firmly against her entrance and pushed… 

 

She screamed. By the gods, his cock was like a rod of molten steel as it pierced her rear entrance. So many sensations at once. The burning pain of his large cock ramming into her, the divine sensation of being  _ filled _ ,  her muscles loosing any fight they had as he grabbed her braided hair in a hard grip and just  ** rammed ** his cock in and out of her burning arse like a prize stallion fucking a mare in heat.

 

Just how long he relentlessly drove her into the desk with his hard cock she didn’t know. She had lost all sense of time as she focused on the potent mixture of pain and pleasure as his cock reduced her to a screaming, begging two copper whore, until  _ f _ inally she felt him _ fill h _ er arse with jet after jet of warm seed. 

 

“Gods I needed that,” she gasped as he carried and then deposited her on the bed.

 

“I don’t know whether to pity or envy the man you take as a consort,” Oberyn admitted as he stood before her naked. His chest heaving, and littered with bite and scratch marks.

 

“A matter for another day,” Visenya admitted as she sat up and grabbed his soft cock in her hands and slowly started to stroke it back up to prominence.

 

“Next time I’ll introduce you to Ellaria,” he said with a groan as she tightened the grip she had on his cock as she stroked him faster.

 

“And who is Ellaria?” Visenya asked as she leaned close enough to run the tip of her tongue ever so slightly across the weeping head of his cock.

 

“Gods you shouldn’t be so good at this at your age,” Oberyn moaned as he closed his eyes in frustration when Visenya refused to do more than to just lightly caress his cock with her tongue. “Ellaria is my… my… fuck.” Whatever else he had to say was cut short as Visenya took his delicious seven in long and rock hard cock fully into her mouth and into her throat, continuously swallowing while breathing through her nose.

 

As soon as she pulled back to just the bulbous head of his cock to suckle on it softly he turned the tables on her and grabbed her hair harshly and pushed her head back down to the root of his long shaft, causing tears to well in her eyes as she almost gagged on the invading flesh. Nver, not even with Aegon had she found a man who could keep up with her, who could play back just as hard as she herself liked. She loved to be in control, but there was just  _ something _ about having an irresistible  _ scoundrel _ beat down her defences and use her as he saw fit.

 

His rapidly increasing short breaths and loud grunts gave her just enough warning to wrestle away from his grip enough to let the head of his cock rest on her tongue, one long hard suck later and she felt his cock jerk wildly as he pumped her mouth full with his seed. After his last burst he gingerly removed his cock from her mouth and watched with lust filled eyes as she swallowed the seed he had deposited in her mouth. Visenya gave a tired smile as she laid back down on the bed and stretched alluringly. It had been far too long since she had tasted her brother’s cock, or his seed, and to finally have Oberyn gift her with his she felt content for the first time in decades.

 

“Come lover…” she patted gingerly on the bed right beside her. “I want to look into your eyes as you fuck me one last time, and while you do this, perhaps you can tell me of Ellaria.”

 

Oberyn’s eyebrows rose, he was certainly impressed, and seeing how his cock twitched he was all for it as well. Slowly lowering his muscled form above her he softly inserted his once again hard cock into her rear as he laid a soft kiss on her lips. “Let me tell you of Ellaria Sand, my Queen…”

 

 

**And that is it for this time. You can thank one of my readers for the Visenya/Oberyn scene, though I will stress that I have yet to decide the final pairing, I actually enjoyed writing this scene so much that the idea of a Visenya/Oberyn/Ellaria pairing is kinda growing on me. Stay tuned for more action next chapter.**

 

**As always, this chapter will be reposted once my beta, the wonderful Tallman7 gets back to my.**

 

**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys.**


	3. Plans upon Plans

**Today’s disclaimer was fed to Ghost and Caraxes to keep them happy, so sorry.**

 

 

**Visenya:**

 

So far they had stayed for near a week in the Water Gardens, getting to know Prince Doran and his household. It had gone a long way, Visenya had to admit to help her get over her distrust of the Dornish, as, her father Rhaegar’s stupid actions aside, the Dornish had apparently been heavily invested in the Targaryens since the double marriage that brought them into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms, bringing Dorne greater security and trade alike.

 

So far Visenya had gotten to know Oberyn’s two eldest daughters Obara and Nymeria quite well, easily dispensing of any notions of her being a ‘simpering princess’ as Obara had called her once. She had taken them both on in the sword ring, and although both girls had promise they were far from her own calibre, and she’d not needed more than five minutes to send them both slinking away to lick their wounds, figuratively of course, and though not the sort of company she preferred to keep, they were both too lustful and treated most anything like a jape, they were… _decent_ company, a change from Ser Arthur at any case who could be grating to her temper at times.

 

Of course, Oberyn was hardly the sort of company she would prefer to keep either, not taking anything serious, apart from the safety of his family and of course his vengeance, but the man _was_ pretty, and far too skilled a lover to just let go until she actually took a husband, that and it was a guilty pleasure of Visenya to see Arthur glare daggers at the Dornish Prince whenever she had to gingerly take a seat after a long night of sex, furthermore, the man was a virtual god with a spear in hand, the five bouts they’d had so far leaving him as the victor four out of five times, and Visenya could appreciate having such talent at her disposal, having a good spearman at her beck and call for some variety in her fighting didn’t hurt either.

 

It was only now, a week later that she had been introduced to Oberyn’s four youngest children, his third oldest Tyene, his lover Ellaria and of course Prince Doran’s daughter Princess Arianne. The young ones were… decent, as far as children went, and his daughter Elia, who was but two years younger than Visenya was actually the one she preferred the most, sharing Visenya’s passion for riding, and actually impressing her with her skill with a lance at such a young age.

 

Tyene and Arianne were a bit less interesting, in that they were far more like Rhaenys. Lustful, and hardly what one could call martial. Oh sure, Tyene apparently had some skill with a dagger, even if the fair woman preferred poison, and Arianne was beautiful enough to even tempt Visenya into considering taking her to bed. Not that she had any plans for it though. While Visenya had taken the occasional woman into bed during Aegon’s absence from her bed, she was hardly interested in women, and while having a skilled tongue between her legs was all well and good, it couldn’t replace a good hard cock on a man who knew how to use it, and unlike Rhaenys, Visenya hadn’t strayed from her husband, so until she was wed, she might as well continue to use Oberyn to sate her needs, and if the ‘sacrifice’ was that she would have to endure Ellaria’s ministrations as well, then it was a sacrifice she was willing to endure, the older woman was far from uncomely after all.

 

“Anyone else we are missing Prince Doran?” she asked from where she was seated at the head of the table in one of the meeting rooms in the Water Gardens, the others included in the small ‘council’ they were having were Doran, Oberyn, Arianne, Ser Arthur and lastly Prince Doran’s guard Areo, a bearded priest of Norvos.

 

“No Your Grace, I felt it best if it were just us for the nonce,” Doran said, “now, it is time to discuss how to best go forward.”

 

Visenya nodded slightly, while she would prefer not putting all her cards on the table, she knew she wasn’t in a position to be secretive towards her strongest and for the nonce _only_ confirmed ally. “Very well, perhaps an accounting of strength first, and then we can move onto potential assets.”

 

“I’ll start then shall I?” Doran asked. “Dorne can muster ten thousand spears, two thousand of them mounted, in addition we have, perhaps five hundred to a thousand Knights to call upon.”

 

“Any ships?” Ser Arthur asked, he had been removed from Dorne for far too long to know much about its current military strength, even with his spies.

 

“No,” Oberyn shook his head. “The various Lords of Dorne can, perhaps muster thirty ships or so of any use in a military venture, with ten times that amount in total of merchant vessels in all, most of which are scattered to the fourteen seas at any given time.”

 

Ser Arthur nodded, Dorne’s navel might in other words was much the same it had been since Nymeria burned her ten thousand ships. “Then it is us I belive,” Visenya said. “We have a dragon obviously, still not large enough to ride, but Caraxes is clever enough to be useful in any naval engagement, and swift and nimble enough to be safe from just about anything save a lucky shot,” she paused for a breather while drumming her hands idly on the table.

 

“I would like to say that I have the North and Riverlands but I dare not. I know that my uncle will not marshal his forces against me, not unless I should prove myself as mad as my grandfather, but I dare not count on his support either. The Rebellion did however see many of the Riverlords loyal to my House, and while no sure thing until I can actually speak with them or declare my claim we can safely assume that there will be token support at the very least in the Riverlands.”

 

“Not much to go on,” Doran countered.

 

“Indeed not My Prince,” Visenya agreed. “I will however have the support of the Narrow Sea, and almost certainly the Crownlands, at least the parts on the north side of the Blackwater.”

 

“You’ve spoken with them?” Doran asked sharply.

 

“No, not as of yet. I intend to sail to Driftmark on the next available ship once we are done here. Lord Monford is my kin and holds enough sway over the Lords of the Narrow Sea that I need not even speak with them in person to get them to my side.”

 

“How certain are you?” Oberyn asked.

 

This time Ser Arthur stepped forward. “While words with my brothers across the sea has been sparse indeed, due to the risk involved, there was a moment where we considered taking an offer from Lord Monford that was backed by every other of the Narrow Sea Lords.”

 

Doran’s eyes narrowed slightly, this was news to him. “What offer?”

 

“The offer to capture Dragonstone and return it to Viserys, they would then declare the isles of the Narrow Sea as an independent nation, restyle it as West Valyria if I remember correctly.”

 

“A foolish venture, and doomed to fail,” Doran interjected, though Oberyn looked to actually be considering such an idea.

 

“In the long run aye,” But with Dragonstone, Stannis and his family in possession they would’ve lasted quite some time I think. In the end the idea was rejected, had not the Royal Fleet been sunk during the summer storm perhaps it could have been done, but it is only now that the Royal Fleet is what it once was.”

 

Yes...” Doran said, more to himself than everyone else. “And if they were willing to do this when their fleets were far from at full strength they should be more willing to support us now, especially with Dorne in the fold as well.” Doran studied the map in front of him. “And you are certain that you can capture Dragonstone?”

 

“I have it on good authority that I can easily get half the garrison to my side the moment I make my landing with the Dragon Banner flying at my back,” Visenya said.

 

“And if it is a lie?” Arianne said, speaking up for the first time.

 

“It is for that very possibility that I will be bringing with me men of unquestioned loyalty to my House.”

 

“Clawmen?” Doran guessed.

 

Visenya nodded. “After I’ve spoken with Lord Monford, I’ll sail for the point. Once there I’ll meet with the Clawmen and win them to my side,” she turned and pointed to Arthur, “Ser Arthur meanwhile will travel to Rosby, Duskendale and Stokeworth with a letter from me, and try to convince them,” she took a moment to take a bite out of one of the juicy plums from the bowl on the table.

 

“When the time comes I will land on Dragonstone with Clawmen and Velaryon men. Lord Monford will raise my banner and lead the siege from the outside, while I will take the Clawmen through underground passages and assault the castle from within as well as open the gates, assuming the garrison doesn’t turn on Stannis the moment I make my landing.”

 

“Hidden passages,” Arianne questioned with a raised eyebrow.

 

Visenya gave a cold smile at the Dornish beauty. “Where do you think my namesake and her son got the idea for the hidden passages in the Red Keep from?”

 

Arianne let out a brief laugh. “How do you know of them though Your Grace?” she asked curiously.

 

“I know,” Visenya said sharply in a tone that brooked no argument, “That ought be enough for all here I should say,” they all acquiesced swiftly, none of them willing to meet her eyes at the moment.

 

“Then we know where we stand,” Doran said, “now we needs discuss how to gather more support,” he looked at Visenya, “The best ways to seal an alliance is through marriage.”

 

“Well there goes the Reach,” Oberyn grumbled.

 

“Explain,” Ser Arthur said.

 

“Mace and Olenna both desire Margaery to be Queen, she was raised in hopes that she would be taken as Joffrey’s Queen, offering Arianne to Willas would not work, not if Margery is offered the Crown Prince as a husband.”

 

“Which we know she will the moment that conflict break out,” Doran said tiredly.

 

“Aye, and Joffrey is not said to wed my cousin Sansa for another three years at the very least, and a betrothal is easy enough to break if it brings the Reach with it, so if Arianne was to wed Willas all we’d be doing would be to grant them a hostage,” Visenya said, “Nor can I allow my heir to be half Tyrell either.”

 

There were more than one muttered agreement at that statement. “Perhaps Edmure Tully,” Arianne questioned, “He is said to be a handsome man, and unwed, and only a few years my elder.”

 

Visenya was the first one to disagree, probably surprising her father and uncle. “Wedding you to Edmure would give us Riverrun and their closest friends, but the Riverlands are just too fragmented as the Rebellion, and every single war in the years past have shown, furthermore, their only natural defenses are their Rivers, and there are enough fords and bridges in the Riverlands that, combanied with its fair wind Lords make it into the worst strategical place in the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“Aye,” Doran said, his voice impressed at Senya’s council, though how was Doran to know how old Senya truly was. “In any war the Seven Kingdoms has seen the Riverlands has always been its playground, with the Rivermen dying in far larger numbers than any others.”

 

“What then?” Arianne asked. “I cannot wed Edmure Tully, nor Willas Tyrell, and Robert Arryn is far to young, who am I to wed?”

 

Visenya would’ve been touched, truly, if she didn’t know that the reason Arianne was so adamant to be wed was simply because the woman wanted a husband to call her own, and children. “Our best option would be to marry both of us to the eldest son or a grandson of one of the Volantene Triarchs, with Quentyn taking a daughter for wife, but I would not wed one of those arrogant descendants of common footsoldiers to save my life, and even with you wedding one, and Quentyn wedding another, the last Triarch would’ve been so offended at being left out that he would no doubt do everything in his power to prevent the other two from going to war,” Visenya studied Arianne for a moment. “Your best option, should you wish for your wedding to bring in outside offers would be to wed a son or nephew of the Archon of Tyrosh, which in and of itself will bring its own problems.”

 

“What do you mean?” Arianne asked, Oberyn and Doran watched in silent interest.

 

“Since the fall of the Three Daughters, Myr, Lys and Tyrosh have been in almost constant war with each other, the moment one of them starts gaining a seizable advantage, the other two join forces for however long is necessary to bring the last one down to their level. Should you wed a Tyroshi of the Archon’s family, the chances are that we will be drawn into a war with the other two, or even worse, Myr and Lys will side with our enemies.” Visenya sighed. “In this case I would suggest you prevail on your father to either allow you to wed a man of your own choosing, or to at least find you a husband who will not mind to move to Dorne and take your name as consort.”

 

Doran shuffled slightly. “There were...deals made,” he admitted. “Before we knew of you, a marriage pact was signed between House Martell and Targaryen, Arianne for Viserys and Quentyn for Daenerys.”

 

Fire burned behind Visenya’s narrowed eyes as she turned her gaze directly upon Doran. “And with **whom** did you sign this pact Prince Doran?” she asked.

 

“Ser Willem Darry,” Doran admitted with a slight gulp, no doubt seeing the fury on Visenya’s face.

 

“Ser Willem Darry,” Visenya deadpanned. “At the very least you should’ve negotiated with Lord Commander Higtower, at any rate, from what little rumours have reached me, my uncle is not someone you would wish upon your only daughter, and thanks to that… _fool_ my aunt is wed to some dothraki savage, better lay to rest any dreams of marriage to House Targaryen, at least for this generation.”

 

“I had hoped...” Doran paused, looking between Visenya and his brother, causing bot Visenya and Oberyn to start laughing.

 

“My dear Prince,” Visenya said with a rare chuckle. “While your brother is a wonderful lover,” she shot a sultry wink at Oberyn, “and knows how to handle a spear, I as the future Queen could not possibly marry a man with eight bastard daughters, or a know proclivity to bring men into his bed.”

 

“Yes you are right,” Doran conceded, “perhaps Quentyn...” he truly was eager to have his blood tied to Visenya, but in this case it was Oberyn who shot him down.

 

“I have enough trouble handling her myself,” Oberyn admitted with a salacious grin that made Arthur actually growl and unsheathe Dawn a few inches from its holster. “SO listen to me when I say that our Queen will eat him alive,” he finished, laughing when he saw the satisfied smirk on Visenya’s face.

 

“I’ll see if arrangements cannot be made for a most highborn beauty for Quentyn to take to wife at a later date,” Visenya said, “but for the nonce it is better to keep all options open, Arianne will be the next ruler of Dorne anyhow, so better to try and find her a husband first.”

 

“Very well,” Doran conceded. “So how do you intend to deal with the other Kingdoms?” he asked.

 

“Our biggest challenge is the Reach,” Visenya admitted. “They bring more men and more food than any other two or even three Kingdoms combined. Fortunately the Tyrells hold on the Reach is and always has been tenuous, so while we’ll struggle to bring the entire Reach to our side, we can try and force the Reach out of the war by sowing conflict within them. Some are still loyal to my family, others will be hesitant to do anything so long as they run risk of Dornish spears appearing at their back, while others will want to depose the Tyrells. Post a few thousand men in Skyreach under command of the Fowlers, and you’ll see most of the southern Reachlords hesitant to offer more than a pittance to a Tyrell army, at the same time I will send a declaration to all the Lords on the Realm, asking for their loyalty, hopefully enough men Lords will be swayed to reduce the Tyrell strength.”

 

“All good plans,” Doran admitted, “And the Stormlords, Westerlands, and the other Kingdoms?”

 

Visenya grimaced. “It all depends on the North and Riverlands. If they support me I can afford to wage a more aggressive war, lure Tywin into the Riverlands and block him at Harrenhal, Lord Harroway’s Town and Maidenpool in the east, and the Northern forces in the North. If I can do this, Tywin will either have to march through the Reach, or be blocked from King’s Landing.”

 

“And the Stormlords?” Oberyn asked.

 

“What Donrish strength not posted in the Prince’s Pass will be stationed in the boneway, well positioned to make fast raids in and out of the southern regions of the Stormlands, not enough to take control, but enough of a nuisance to ever keep them from marshalling their full strength.”

 

“I assume you intend to take the Crownlanders and Narrow Sea Lords with you to block Tywin in the Riverlands?” Doran questioned.

 

“Yes,” Visenya replied. “At the same time, my fleet will cut off the Blackwater. If Rosby, Stokeworth and Duskendale join me that is the best, otherwise I shall have to storm their castles first to make sure that no food arrives to King’s Landing.”

 

Doran furrowed his brows. “taking any of those castles will be a chore, costly in time and men.”

 

Visenya smirked. “Not necessarily, I’ve yet to see the castle gate that can withstand dragonfire, and in the dark of the night their gate will already be aflame before they stand the chance to try and bring down Caraxes.”

 

“You intend to starve the capitol then?” Arianne interceded.

 

“In the beginning yes, with no supplies from Rosby, Stokeworth or the Blackwater, they’ll need to have food brought in from the Tyrells via the roseroad, and that can be dealt with.”

 

“How?” Arianne asked.

 

“You Dornish are good at hiding,” Visenya responded, somewhat bitterly as she remembered their early attempts at conquering Dorne. “Five hundred riders with good horses and able to live off the land and remain hidden can ambush any shipment of food, unless guarded by an actual army. Ride in during the night and set fire to it all, or poison it,” Visenya looked to Oberyn. “Can such thing be done?”

 

Oberyn grinned, “It might,” he admitted. “It just might, and I know just the man to organize such a band.”

 

“Then see it done before we leave,” she turned her gaze back to Doran. “Take no action until you receive word from me. I’ll have a raven sent to Sunspear with the words ‘Fire and Blood’ when it is time to strike.”

 

“It will be done,” Doran nodded.

 

Visenya smiled slightly. “Fear not Prince Doran, even if half of our plans and contingencies fail, it should still stall the Usurper and his allies long enough that Caraxes will have time to grow properly, and then only a fool will face us on the field, they’ll be locked in their castles and cities until they starve to death or bend the knee.”

 

Doran smiled slightly. “Then let us raise our glasses, for the wars to come.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Varys:**

 

Varys watched with pity as Eddard Stark stormed out of the Small Council chambers, King Robert’s screams following him. Varys both admired, and despised Lord Eddard. He admired him for his morals, who else in the Realm would’ve had the courage to not only council Robert to let the Targaryens go, but actually chastise the King and then resign his office?

 

It was a shame. The Realm was in need of good men like Eddard Stark, and yet at the same time, Eddard Stark was one of the biggest obstacles to Aegon’s eventual Conquest. He and Illyrio had worked years on the plan, they both knew that something extraordinary was needed it Aegon was to succeed. While hardly united, the Realm as a whole was strong, each Kingdom scheming and plotting, and flush with potential men to call to war. And for all his vices, Robert was well loved, Aegon’s invasion would be stopped before it could even begin as long as Robert was King. The alliance that had held the Realm together since the Rebellion was tearing at the seams though.

 

Jon Arryn’s death had left Lysa in charge of the Vale, a good thing normally as Lysa was so fearful for her son that she would adamantly refuse any call to war, no matter who asked for her aid, but she was also so infatuated with Petyr Baelish, and should Baelish ever gain the permission to wed Lysa, he would be in control of the Vale, and in prime position to use it’s rumoured forty thousand men to devastating effect, and thanks to its geography the Vale was an almost unassailable stronghold, only truly vulnerable from the sea, or the air as Visenya Targaryen had proven near three centuries earlier.

 

And even if the King should die it still left Eddard Stark. If he found out the truth of the Queen’s children, then the alliance would most likely collapse altogether, but if he didn’t then Eddard Stark, regardless of his feelings towards Joffrey would feel honour bound to serve and protect, and if he did find out out… well, there was the reason Varys despised Eddard Stark. Honourable men were truly the worst to try and predict he found out, as one could never know when they might do something incredibly… foolish. No, Eddard Stark would have to go, one way or the other, as his death would break the bonds between House Stark and House Baratheon, and leaving the North in charge of a boy barely five and ten, he just had to find out a way to do it. Unlike Jon Arryn who had been poisoned by his wife, Eddard Stark was far more cautious, employing a food taster, and never leaving the company of his guards, he knew, sadly what a vipers den King’s Landing was.

 

“Damn stubborn fucking fool,” Robert’s continued mutterings drew Varys’ attention back to the present. “Are there any other matters?” Robert asked impatiently.

 

“Ah yes,” Pycelle started mumbling and fumbling about with several sheets of paper, with both Varys and Baelish, still under heavy guard sharing a brief moment of camaraderie as they both rolled their eyes with exasperation, how was it that no one else saw through the old fool? “Grave, grave news Your Grace,” Pycelle said as he found the paper he was looking for.

 

“WELL?” Robert yelled, he had never been a patient man, and certainly not when angry, so Pycelle’s dithering must be especially grating at the moment.

 

“A message from the Citadel Your Grace,” Pycelle said gravely. “Foul murder and theft as well.”

 

Now that was interesting, Varys had always had trouble getting his little birds into the Citadel, distrustful lot that the grey rats were, only Dragonstone and Driftmark were harder to get information from, to his great regret.

 

“Little more than a week ago, the Arch Maesters were discovered in the morning, dead from poison. The restricted library broken into with several books missing and all four of the Citadel’s glass candles gone.”

 

Varys winced slightly. Glass candles meant that the thief in question was obsessed with magic, and no good ever came of magic.

 

“Who is behind it?” Robert asked.

 

“We-we believe it was Arch Maester Marwyn Your Grace, he was the only Arch Maester not found dead, that is, it appears he has left in great hurry, as most of his personal possessions have been left behind. A full accounting was done, we keep meticulous records after all, and one of the acolytes, some Summer Islander boy named Alleras seems to be his accomplice.”

 

Varys considered for a brief moment if he should inform the King about just who ‘Alleras’ was. He had always made it a point to keep track of Prince Oberyn and his children, so he kenw that Prince Oberyn’s daughter Sarella, who just so happened to look like a Summer Islander was studying at the Citadel, also, simply turning her name backwards so it became Alleras instead of Sarella was hardly a great feat of deception.

 

But he held his tongue at the last minute. No matter how much he hated magic, he hated a mystery even more, and this was just the latest mystery that Dorne was connected to. Dorne would be Aegon’s strongest ally, if they bought the tale he and Illyrio had come up with, which was why they had Jon Connington with the boy. So, if only for Aegon, Varys would hold his tongue, at least until he knew more of the situation, and there were several things he wanted desperately to know.

 

“Bah,” Robert snorted, “Let the old cunts deal with it I’ve got Seven Kingdoms to rule, I’ve no time to worry about some dried old cunts getting robbed or poisoned,” and then he rose from his chair and stormed off.

 

‘ _Rule indeed,’_ Varys thought drily, if Robert spent even half as much time ruling as he did between a whore’s legs then Varys might not participate in Illyrio’s plot. A good friend who he owed very much, the Realm was still Varys’ greatest concern which was why the situation in Dorne was so vexing as of late.

 

Quite recently Princes Doran and Oberyn, as well as Arianne Martell had met in private with Ser Arthur Dayne and his niece, Lord Stark’s bastard daughter, the question was why, and was Lord Stark involved? Eddard Stark for all Varys knew had not declaimed his daughter missing, nor had he informed the King that Arthur Dayne was no longer in Winterfell. That Arthur Dayne was the mystery Knight who had caused such furore in the Reach was obvious, and that his niece was actually his squire was evident, and it had been the pair of them who had killed Gregor Clegane, the Mountain’s head had been proudly been carried through the streets of Sunspear less than a week after Ser Arthur and Lyarra Snow had appeared in Dorne, even if Doran never revealed who had delivered it.

 

So why? Was Ser Arthur hoping for Doran to give the girl a good wedding? Perhaps wedding her to Prince Quentyn now that Daenerys Targaryen was no longer available, or did he have some other purpose? The girl had after all been seduced to Prince Oberyn’s bed if the words of one of his birds were true. Gossip in the Water Gardens certainly supported the theory as one of the cleaning maids swore she had discovered the Prince in bed with the bastard one morning.

 

‘ _And such a rare beauty as well,’_ he thought, _‘almost like a Dragonlord of old,’_ he drew in a sharp breath, _‘surely not...’_ but it fit, it fit so well. He could only blame the Sack, and the still lingering Targaryen presence on Dragonstone for why no one had questioned why a member of the Kingsguard had been doing in Dorne, guarding a lone woman and rumoured lover of a Prince, especially during time of war. And for that matter, hadn’t both Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower also been there? The latter two hadn’t shown up at Dragonstone until several months had passed since the sack, long enough to have verified if Lyanna Stark bore a boy or a girl…

 

Wary of the fact that both Baelish and Pycelle were staring at him after his sudden gasp Varys held a hand faintly to his forehead. “My, I think the heat is getting to me,” he tittered, making both men roll their eyes. They knew he was lying, but as always in the little games they played with each other, appearances had to be maintained. Giving them both one last look Varys skulked off.

 

It was past midnight when Varys appeared in Lord Eddard’s rooms through a false wall, he had no intention of being discovered, the risk was too great. “Varys,” Eddard Stark gasp from where he was seated at his desk, reading over a few letters. From the state of the room, Lord Stark had come quite far in packing already.

 

Varys spread his arms slowly. “Lord Eddard, we _must_ speak alone, please follow me.”

 

Stark moved _much_ quicker than a man his height and bulk had any right to, almost vaulting his desk and then he had Varys against the wall with a dagger at his throat. “I’ll go nowhere with you in the middle of the night _Spider_.”

 

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Varys leaned closer so that his mouth was but a few inches from Eddard’s ear, “It concerns your _niece_ ,” he whispered, almost laughing as Eddard’s dagger fell to the floor with a loud ‘clank’.

 

“ _How_ ,” he whispered breathlessly.

 

“Not here,” Varys said as he walked back into the entrance he had arrived from. They continued to walk, their only source of light was the small candlestick in Varys’ hand until they reached an intersection, one passage led into the city itself while another went into a steep downslope that would end in a small hidden cove along the Blackwater. Varys turned to Ned. “I must commend you My Lord, you’ve had the whole Realm fooled.”

 

Ned glared angrily. “Say what you want to say Varys,” he said stoically.

 

“War is coming My Lord, your niece is already hard at work.”

 

Ned’s eyes narrowed, “What do you mean.”

 

“I have little birds everywhere,” Varys said softly, “One whom has it on good accounts that you niece has taken Oberyn Martell for a lover, furthermore she and her good Ser Arthur have been meeting with the Martells in secret.”

 

Judging by how Lord Stark’s clenched fist was trembling the man was no doubt furious at the mere thought of his niece bedding the well known Dornish rake. “If I ever get my hands on that man…” Ned almost snarled.

 

“The question, My Lord Hand is what will you do? I am not the only one in this city who knows how to put two and two together… If I can figure out the clues, then so can others,” Varys paused. “And you know what will happen should the King find out.”

 

Ned swallowed thickly, if he was lucky then losing his head was all that would happen, at worst his entire family would be murdered by Robert. “Why tell me then?” he asked, “You did not hesitate to send your knives after the Targaryen girl.”

 

Varys laughed. “Who do you think has ensured that they’ve lived this long hmm? Oh yes,” Varys said as Ned’s eyes widened. “'twas I who spirited them across the sea. I alone that ensured their escape in the nick of time from the assassins Robert forced me to send. I’ve kept them alive My Lord as a viable alternative… should it be needed.”

 

“If _needed_ ,” Ned Stark was gaping. “You speak of the future of the ruling family.”

 

“And what off it My Lord hmm? You’ve seen Joffrey yourself, another Aerys if ever there was one, Myrcella is a girl, without the benefit of coming from a family known for warrior women and dragon riders, and Tommen… Tommen is a sweet boy, the court will tear him asunder I fear, if his brother does not do it himself upon inheriting the Throne.”

 

“So you what? Keep an extra pair of possible rulers at hand in case you need to have Robert’s children replaced?”

 

“An overly simple explanation My Lord, though not entirely inaccurate.”

 

“And now?” Ned spat. “You think you’ve found another, better option?”

 

“Hardly,” Varys said. “I merely wanted to warn you, and inform you that the King will no doubt find out sooner or later, it only takes one wrong comment and someone will fit together all the pieces.”

 

Ned was pacing by now. “My children are not safe in the city,” he stated finally.

 

“No they are not, neither are you My Lord.”

 

“I have a duty to Robert,” Ned growled, “If he finds out then so be it, but I’ll not endanger my children any longer,” he turned a sly eye on Varys. “Who _do_ you serve Varys?”

 

Varys smiled, “I serve the Realm My Lord, the old and the young, rich and poor, and most importantly, the innocents who so oft get crushed under the heel of the nobles who play their games.”

 

“Aye, it’s always the innocent who suffer the most,” Ned agreed with a heavy sigh, “But my daughters are young, and innocent in these games you speak of.”

 

“That they are My Lord,” Varys agreed.

 

“If I were to ask, could you spirit them out of the city? Tonight?”

 

“I could,” Varys admitted. “But why should I?”

 

It took all of Ned’s willpower not to hit him, it was clear as day to Varys upon spotting the rage in his face. “They are my **daughters** ” Ned snarled, “hate the Great Houses for their games all you want Spider, but my daughters have committed no crime, and I’ll not have them in danger in this pit of vipers any longer than I need to.”

 

Varys stayed silent as his mind worked through a hundred different scenarios, should he aid the Warden of the North? Or not. “I can get them out My Lord, but I cannot ship them back to Winterfell,” he held up a hand to silence Ned. “If your daughters were to end up in Winterfell, the King and Queen would question why you sent them off in secrecy in the dark of the night.”

 

Conflict appeared on Ned’s face. “What do you suggest.”

 

“I have a friend,” Varys admitted, “A few friends actually with whom the girls could stay, at least until it would be safe to bring them back,” he smirked slightly, “You know one of them I believe, and old flame whom you met during the Tourney of Harrenhal.”

 

“What?” Ned asked in confusion.

 

“Ashara Dayne is not dead My Lord,” Varys said. “She lives in Essos, she desired a new life away from Westeros I believe, what with her daughter taken from her, and her brother leaving for the North to guard his Princess… I must commend her for her loyalty, not once did she mention Rhaegar’s daughter living with you.”

 

“Ashara…” a pained look crossed Ned’s face at the mention of his old love. “What do you mean her daughter being taken away? Our daughter was stillborn.”

 

“Was she?” Varys questioned. “Ashara never wanted her daughter to grow up as a bastard, nor did she wish for you to take her with you North as she feared you would, so she gave the girl to her parents to raise as her sister instead.”

 

“Allyria,” Ned’s voice was almost a whisper. “Allyria Dayne, she’s my daughter.”

 

“Yes,” Varys confirmed. “And she’s had a good life, and set to wed a good man.”

 

Ned hesitated before giving a resigned, heavy nod. “Do it,” he said harshly. “Get my daughters to safety…” he gave a moment’s pause. “Would you be able to send word to my son and wife?”

 

“Best not My Lord,” Varys said sadly, “At least not at first. Once I receive word that the girls have been safely delivered to Ashara’s safekeeping I’ll have you pen a letter to be given to your wife.”

 

“How will it be done?” Ned asked.

 

“Go to sleep My Lord Hand,” Varys calmed him. “I’ll take care of everything, a few of your guards will wake up with ringing heads but that will be the worst of it, and the girls will not be here tomorrow morning.”

 

Ned nodded. “One more thing Varys, in the Weeping Rose my daughter’s tutor is staying, make certain he goes with them, I assume you can continue to make certain he is paid.”

 

“Ah yes, the water dancer,” Varys remarked. “He could be useful,” he admitted. Aegon could certainly benefit from having the former First Sword of Braavos teach him a few tricks.

 

A resigned smile crossed Ned’s face. “Make certain that whomever you send to spirit away the girls, bring with them Arya’s sword as well, their ears will regret it for a long time after if they don’t.”

 

“I’ll see it done.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Visenya:**

 

Visenya sighed as she took a deep breath from where she stood upon the cliffs on Driftmark. It had been far too long since she visited the island where her mother Valaena had been born on. “Amazing sight to see,” Oberyn remarked as he watched Caraxes soar through the air in the fading gloom of day.

 

“They are amazing creatures,” Visenya admitted. “My ancestors conquered most of the known world with them,” she smiled slightly, “Can you imagine it Oberyn? Hundreds of them, white and gold, red and black, blue and bronze, soaring through the air.”

 

She let out a little smirk as Oberyn shivered. “Oh I can imagine alright,” he admitted. “And any who cannot should take a look at Harrenhal, or even here,” he admitted, pointing out the burned out husk that remained of High Tide, the magnificent castle that had been raised by Corlys Velaryon after his journeys, and subsequently been burnt down to its foundations in the Dance. “Though I wonder why Corlys or his grandson never rebuilt the castle after the Dance was over, he certainly had the funds for it.”

 

“He left it as a reminder,” Visenya remarked angrily.

 

Oberyn raised an eyebrow.

 

“A reminder of our own foolishness.” Visenya admitted. “It was the first time my House wed someone not of Valyrian blood, and because of it the Realm bled, and my House nearly brought to ruin.”

 

“You support Rhaenyra then?” Nymeria asked.

 

“Aye I do,” Visenya said simply. “She was older than her brother by far, and with three children of her own, and most importantly, she was Viserys’ proclaimed heir, of which the Small Council and the Lord Paramounts all signed off on. Aegon, that whelp of Alicent Hightower had no rights to the Throne… No, if not all the following Kings of my House learned a lesson then I certainly have.”

 

Visenya studied her Dornish companions. “I can assure you that my father’s marriage is the last time a man or woman of House Targaryen will wed someone not of the Blood of Old Valyria, and especially not to an Andal.”

 

“You don’t seem to like the Andals much,” Obara said with a small grin.

 

“And why should I?” Visenya questioned. “Look at them, each time a Targaryen has married an Andal the other Andal Houses have become wroth or insulted and started to plot together,” she shook her head. “No, Like my ancestors of Old Valyria I’ll let men follow whatever Gods they wish, but never again will I allow Andal filth and corruption to mar the blood of my fathers.”

 

Slow clapping made Visenya turn around and give a rare smile. Walking towards them was Ser Arthur whom she had sent to meet with Lord Monford Velaryon, while Visenya, Oberyn and his two daughters waited by the ruins of High Tide. Following Ser Arthur was ten guards, clad in shining plate and aquamarine surcoats with the seahorse of House Velaryon, and a man who could only be Lord Monford himself.

 

Like most men in whom the Blood of Valyria still ran strong, Lord Monford was a tall man, easily surpassing six feet. His silver gold hair was kept short, nearly shaved all the way down on the sides and his short beard was well trimmed. “Well said,” he lowered himself to one knee, his guards following him, “My Queen.”

 

“My kin,” Visenya said as she stepped close and raised his head to look upon her. “It brings me joy to see House Velaryon is still strong and true.”

 

“The Old, The True, The Brave,” Monford said with a smile, reminding Visenya of the words House Velaryon had sworn by for centuries. “House Velaryon has always served House Targaryen, and I’ll not be the first of my line to break that faith.”

 

“One would think you would hail to Viserys,” Nymeria quipped.

 

“ **Enough** ” Visenya barked as she shot Nymeria a dark look that promised her a painful beating at a later date. “Rise My Lord,” Visenya gestured for Monford to stand.

 

“Quite so,” Monford agreed as he glared at the Dornish bastard. “We fought for Rhaenyra who was by all rights the true Queen of Westeros. It is Queen Visenya who is the last living child of Rhaegar, and unlike Viserys who begs across the sea she has the first living dragon in over a century.”

 

Visenya laid a hand on Monford’s shoulder, “And I’ll not forget your loyalty My Lord, and I can assure you that the time for dragons will come again.”

 

Monford nodded. “How did you hatch it My Queen?” he asked. “Our last egg hatched before the Dance, and none of our ancestors from House Targaryen has managed to hatch one since.”

 

“I do not know why,” Visenya admitted reluctantly. “Eggs do sometimes petrify, but it should be easy enough to reawaken them if one but knows how, and there should be more than enough books and scrolls in the library at Dragonstone…” she paused. “I personally suspect foul play, not only this, but in other matters as well, though we shall have to speak in private about this.”

 

“Of course,” Monford agreed. “I’ve made preparations for your arrival My Queen, none shall know of your presence here I assure you. I also brought extra horses.”

 

“Thank you,” Visenya said as she accepted the reins of a horse, easily swinging herself into the saddle.

 

It was a short ride to Driftmark castle, filled mostly with pointless smalltalk. Visenya herself not willing to discuss important matters around others, and Monford was clever enough not to attempt it either. Though old and somewhat cramped, the castle was still strong, and shaped much like Dragonstone, it’s design almost like a star instead of the round or square designs so often favoured by the Westerosi, with gargoyles shaped in all manner of mythical creatures decorating the castle.

 

Inside the main hall they were met by a table groaning under the weight of all kinds of dishes and flagons of fine wines stood ready to be poured. Seated beside the Lord’s chair was Monford’s only son and heir Monterys, a young boy of six. Next to Monterys was his mother, Lord Monford’s sister wife Alyssa, and then was another man, who, much like Loras Tyrell ahd no business being so pretty as he was.

 

Long flowing locks of silver gold, an elegantly styled moustache and shining purple eyes. He was much slimmer than Monford, though near as tall, and unlike Monford he had a roguish grin that made Visenya do all manner of things that would’ve earned her a thorough scolding from her mother.

 

A cough brought her out of her daze and she delivered a warning glare to Oberyn who, judging by his smirk was _this_ close to letting out a remark that would earn him a lashing. At least good Ser Arthur was as dependable as always, doing his very best to murder the handsome man with his eyes. “My family Your Grace,” Monford remark, and to Visenya’s chagrin there was a definite tinge of amusement there, he’d no doubt seen the look on her face just as Oberyn and Ser Arthur had.

 

“My son Monterys, my sister wife Alyssa and lastly my bastard brother Aurane,” he pointed each of them out in turn. “This,” he gestured to Visenya, “Is her Grace Visenya of House Targaryen, the second of her name, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

 

A fair few people gasped in surprise, with many taking a swift knee. “Please,” Visenya stalled them. “There is a time for supplication, but it is not now, not when I am hungry and weary of travel.”

 

Monford laughed and escorted Visenya up to the table where she was seated beside him, fortunately on his other side so both his bulk, as well as his wife and son blocker her view to his bastard brother, she’d need a few moments to collect herself. ‘ _Damnit Senya,’_ she cursed herself. _‘You’re a Queen, not a simpering maid lusting for any handsome face,’_ But Aurane Waters wasn’t just any handsome face. The Blood of Old Valyria ran as strong in him as it did in his brother, but his slightly more slender frame was a sharp reminder of her own, now long dead brother Aegon, and for all the Oberyn was a good lover, she longed for a proper man of the Blood to call her own.

 

As they dined she split her attention between Monford and his sister-wife for the most part. Young Monterys for all that he was quite adorable for a child was simply too young to fully appreciate conversation, especially when he had a plate filled with desert.

 

Alyssa she learned, was Monford’s elder by two years, and had served as a lady-in-waiting for Queen Rhaella until her death, having been one of those who helped bring Daenerys into the world, and had later studied under her father Lucerys while Monford was a hostage in King’s Landing. As was their fashion as a House of Old Valyria she had wed her brother upon his return from King’s Landing upon the death of their father, young Monterys making his appearance a year after their wedding, though they’d not been blessed by another child since. “Not for lack of trying,” Alyssa had said with a grin.

 

“Must you speak of this in front of my nephew,” Aurane huffed, though his grin revealed that it was in jest. “I’ll not have you corrupt him so soon sister,” he smirked, “as his uncle that is my job after all.”

 

Alyssa sniffed primly. “I’ll twist your ears until they fall of if you teach my son your wicked ways,” she said warningly.

 

“Come now my love,” Monford cut in. “There are far worse men that our son could learn from.”

 

“I suppose,” she said grudgingly.

 

“There you see?” Aurane said with a victorious grin. “Leave him with me, we’ll sail all around the world once he gets a bit older and when we return he’ll bring with him a whole gaggle of little boys and girls of his own for you to dote upon.”

 

“I suppose you’ll return with all the treasures of Old Valyria and a dragon each besides,” Alyssa said drily, “I know you well enough brother that I’ll never let you drag Monterys away to introduce him to every whorehouse from Sunspear to Qarth.”

 

Aurane chuckled. “You know me too well sister,” he remarked ruefully, before shooting a grin at his young nephew, “Worry not nephew, there are enough establishments in Westeros that I’ll yet manage to sneak you in to sample a few.”

 

“That’s quite enough,” Monford said finally, chuckling slightly at his son who looked confused, not knowing exactly what his uncle was talking about, only that it was apparently bad if his mother was anything to go by.

 

“I hate to interrupt this marvellous feast,” Visenya said, “But I require a word with Lord Monford,” she looked at Arthur and Oberyn, “Alone.”

 

Alyssa nodded. “Of course Your Grace, I shall see to it that your companions are given proper lodgings after the meal is done.”

 

Visenya followed Monford through the corridors of the old castle until they were both seated in his darkend solar, only a few candles for light, while outside the door, Ghost prowled to ensure their privacy. “Now we can speak of your worries My Queen,” Monford said.

 

Visenya nodded slowly. “I fear for the future of my House Lord Monford, the Rebellion…” she shook her head. “Too obvious I think, merely the last in a long line of attacks aimed to eradicate my House.”

 

“You suspect something… deeper is behind it all?” he questioned.

 

“As do you I should think,” she said slyly, smirking slightly as he gave a short nod. “There is so much that does not add up,” she continued. “Balerion, dead at two hundred and two of old age,” both of them scoffed.

 

“Dragons grow until the day they die,” Monford affirmed, “and I’ve yet to hear of any dragon to die of old age, with the exception of Balerion.”

 

“Yes, and then of course, shortly after the Dance that was caused by those greedy Hightowers every dragon egg is suddenly refusing to hatch.”

 

“Not quite,” Monford admitted. “Rhaena Targaryen’s dragon hatched, quite healthy even, and yet soon after she wed her Hightower husband the dragon withered and died, same as the last dragon that Aegon III hatched, it was weak and withered from the start and died soon after… since then no dragon egg has hatched, to my knowledge at least.”

 

“Yes…” Visenya paused. “And then there are the problems we’ve experienced in the last generations or so. My great grandfather Jaeherys, born weak and sickly, grandfather Aerys an actual madman by the end, and of course my grandmother… one and ten children, all but three either miscarried, stillborn or died in infancy.”

 

“I never knew the Queen that well,” Monford admitted. “But by all accounts she was a healthy woman, hardly frail or sickly.”

 

“Yes,” Visenya agreed. “Ever since the Dance there has been an abnormal amount of Targaryens born frail and sickly, I refuse to believe for a moment that it is coincidence.” She studied Monford for a moment. “Tell me Monford, when you wed, did you do it in the fashion of Old Valyria? Did you perform the proper rites?”

 

“Of course,” Monford said aghast.

 

“I suspected as much, you still keep in your possession books and scrolls from Valyria that has been shared between our families yes?”

 

“Naturally,” Monford said. “Should the worst happen, my son will still learn of his heritage.”

 

“As it should be,” Visenya praised. “We had much the same on Dragonstone, as well as a few additional books and scrolls pertaining to dragonlore.”

 

“As was your right as the last true Dragonlords,” Monford said.

 

“And yet, near every wedding as far I can tell since that of Jaeherys has been done in a Sept,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What if someone have been systematically stealing or destroying the collected knowledge that we saved from the Doom? What if the men and women of my House simply stopped performing the proper rites?”

 

“It would explain the sudden ills that has befallen your House My Queen,” Monford admitted. “I’d say that someone of my House would’ve educated your ancestors, but they would’ve found it hard to do so if they were unaware of this.”

 

“Just so,” Visenya agreed. “I’d say after the Dance was probably when it would’ve started. Aegon was but a boy when the regency council took over, and your ancestor Corlys died long before he could’ve told Aegon anything.”

 

“Pardon my curiosity My Queen,” Monford halted. “How is it that you know all of these things.”

 

Visenya smirked slightly. She trusted Monford, far more than any other man, save perhaps for her uncle, but he’d find the tale as hard as anyone else, far better to deliver a believable lie. “Daenys the Dreamer saved my House from extinction, and she is far from the only one with Dragon Dreams.”

 

Monford’s eyes widened slightly. “That would explain it,” he admitted impressed. “You have a rare gift My Queen.”

 

“Indeed,” Visenya agreed. “Now, I hate to seem uncouth, but is there a reason why House Velaryon has fallen upon such hard times?” she asked carefully. “A single son and a bastard brother as the only heirs should something befall you and your sister.”

 

Monford grimaced. “Monterys was a difficult birth, and Alyssa has yet to conceive since.”

 

“My condolences,” Visenya said softly. “And Alyssa, what would her reaction be if you were to take a second wife?”

 

“I’d rather not ponder it,” Monford admitted with a wry grin.

 

Visenya laughed. “She would not be pleased I imagine, but it may be necessary, especially if my plans are to bear fruit.”

 

“What plans?” he asked curiously.

 

“We will retake Westeros, that is a certainty, it is only a question of time before Caraxes becomes large enough that most of our enemies will yield rather than face a second field of fire, but why stop there?” she asked, fire burning in her eyes. “For centuries the Free Cities, Myr, Lys and Tyrosh in particular has been a thorn in our side, pirates and smugglers interfering with trade or levying unjust taxes, raiding our shores in the night to carry our subjects off as slaves, and at times even going to outright war, the time has come My Lord to have a proper reckoning and bring them to heel...for good.”

 

“Were it not for that bitch Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra and Daemon would’ve done it already,” Monford said surly. “I read it from Corlys’ own journal. Less than a year before the death of King Viserys, plans were already made for an invasion of the Triarchy.”

 

“Exactly,” Visenya said, even though she was surprised that the idea had actually been seriously considered. “Which is why I would suggest you speak with your wife about taking a second wife. I will need dragon riders, and House Velaryon has proven its loyalty too many times to count, it is time that you are finally recognized as a House of Dragonlords in your own right.”

 

Monford’s eyes widened. “My Queen,” he said in a hushed whisper. “This… you honour us.”

 

“An honour you’ve earned through generations of sacrifice, yours will be the first House of Dragonlords, sworn directly to House Targaryen.”

 

“An oath that shall **never** be broken My Queen,” Monford said adamantly. “You have… plans for others as well?”

 

“Perhaps,” Visenya admitted. “Celtigar _may_ be considered. But for the nonce I think the best option is to make use of the dragonseeds, I’ll give them dragons if they can hatch them, and like my namesake I’ll _bind_ them in _bonds_ of unwavering loyalty. A few choice marriages perhaps, and some generations of hard and true loyalty and one of mine descendants might raise them up.”

 

Monford chuckled. “Even if you or your descendants decide not to, you’ll still have a core of loyal dragonriders, I assume you’ll attempt to employ the same methods Queen Visenya used to ensure the loyalty of Aegon’s Kingsguard?”

 

Visenya grinned. “The very same,” she admitted.

 

“Good,” Monford said. “And yourself? I assume you have a husband in mind?”

 

“Not for the moment,” Visenya admitted. “I had hoped you had a son closer to me in age, or perhaps Celtigar, gods know I cannot wed Oberyn.”

 

A sly smile appeared on Monford’s face, “And my brother is a bastard, and as such not suitable, regardless of how much you wanted him.”

 

Her face was _burning_ she knew it. “Careful Monford,” she said angrily as she tried to force the redness away from her cheeks. “Careful now, I give you much more liberty than most considering the bonds of loyalty and kinship between our Houses, but speak to me in such a fashion in public and I’ll have to take you to task for it.”

 

“Of course My Queen,” Monford placated her, though he still had that knowing grin on his face.

 

She stayed on Driftmark for a further three weeks, ironing out as much detail of her plans as she could with Monford. She would’ve preferred to leave as swift as possible, but according to Monford, Lord Celtigar was about to send out a force of men on his yearly attempt to get a bent copper from the Houses on Cracklaw point, and according to Monford, these last years Celtigar had sent enough men that a few of them even returned alive, no coin with them though, and Visenya had to suppress a smile of triumph. Ever since she personally gained their loyalty during the Conquest the men of the ‘Claw had been fervent loyalists to House Targaryen, and **only** House Targaryen.

 

And with Lord Celtigar coming to visit Monford in onrder to discuss wedding his grand daughter to Monford as a second wife, Visenya would accompany Celtigar back to Claw Isle, and join his little tax ‘expedition’ from there. Also accompanying her would be Oberyn as a personal guard, Ser Arthur had already left for Duskendale, where he would attempt to sniff out their loyalties, before moving on to Rosby and Stokeworth, having been given great freedom as how he wanted to act. According to him he would attempt to find out their true loyalties, before making subtle hints about a future Targaryen restoration that was backed by several important Lords and a Kingdom or two. Their response would determine whether Senya would have to set aside time and plans to take the castles by storm once she made her move or not.

 

On another front, Oberyn gave her news that his daughter Sarella had been successful. Once she was first told of Sarella and how the girl was masquarading as a boy studying at the Citadel with none the wiser she had discussed with Oberyn about the possibility of Sarella stealing the fabled glass candles in the Citadel’s possession. She hadn’t thought the girl would do it, certainly not succeed, but apparently she had. Successfully stealing the candles, along with several books and scrolls from the Citadel’s secret vaults, and she’d been aided in her efforts by an Arch Maester, fondly nicknamed Marwyn ‘The Mage’, one thing was certain, Visenya was looking forward to meeting this man, very much…

 

 

* * *

 

 

**The White Bull:**

 

His hands were shaking, Gerold noted suddenly as he paused in his packing. They were in Vaes Dothrak. Had been there for weeks actually, and it had as a whole been a completely horrible experience. They hardly spoke the language, people acted like barbarians, rutting or drinking themselves into a stupor wherever one turned his head.

 

The ancient rules of the city forbade weapons, so he, and Oswell as well as the mwn whose loyalty they had gained for Viserys’ cause since escaping to Essos had to walk around without so much as a dagger by their sides, and it made him feel as naked as whore in a brothel. He was a Kingsguard, and furthermore, he was Kingsguard to a King who made his job even more difficult than Aerys had ever done.

 

Aerys had been mad, not even Gerold would deny that, but he had the full weight of Westeros behind him, nominally at least, and was for the most part fully capable of acting out on his threats. Viserys though… He had nearly gotten them killed several times on the journey to Vaes Dothrak alone, the biggest incident was the one where one of Khal Drogo’s riders near strangled Viserys to death, only quick thinking by Oswell had saved their lives that day, first by cutting the whip and then overwhelming Viserys with tales of this wondrous wine he had discovered and expertly led their King away, no doubt to sample this wine, while Gerold had to calm donw the furious screamer who had nearly killed the King, only wisdom, and Princess Daenerys’ pleading eyes had stopped him from ending his life, even if he fulfilled his duty and challenged the screamer to a duel later that night and removed his hand with a single swing of his sword, just as the law dictates, ‘he who raises a hand to the Blood of the Dragon loses the hand’.

 

And now, it was all over If only the King had consulted with him or Oswell perhaps they could have stopped it, instead the fool had marched straight into the Khal’s large tent and threatened him and Princess Daenerys at sword point. Oswell had tried to interfere, and only his quick reflexes let him escape with more than a fright. For the King that brief interruption mad all the difference though and he’d quickly been apprehended, as had Gerold and Oswell, and the two Kingsguard had been forced to watch as the King was nailed, hand and feet to a pole and simply dumped into the cooking fire, the Khal had not the patience to wait for the gold he put into a large pot to melt.

 

“Ser Gerold?”

 

Geruld spun around at the voice only to be met by the sight of Princess Daenerys. “Princess,” he greeted her.

 

Daenerys wrinkled her face slightly. “I am Queen now that my brother is dead,” she said sullenly.

 

“Forgive me Princess but you are not,” Oswell interjected. “By the precedents set by the Great Council of the year one hundred and one after Aegon’s Conquest, and later again in the Dance of Dragon, your brother, as the last son of House Targaryen was the rightful King, but your niece Visenya’s claim comes before yours Princess, and the Queen is alive and well in Westeros.”

 

Daenerys face fell. “So you’ll just l-leave me here?” she asked.

 

“Our duty is with our Queen,” Gerold said sadly, he had no desire to leave his Princess, but his duty was clear. “If you wish for it, we would take you with us, it would be difficult, and the Dothraki would no doubt give us chase, but it could be done.”

 

“N-no,” she shook her head, “I cannot leave, not without my sun-and-stars.”

 

Gerlod gave the Princess a nod. “Then I wish you good fortune Princess, and know that I will do my best to keep your niece the Queen safe.”

 

Gerold stiffened, and gave a murderous glare towards the chuckling Oswell as Daenerys threw her arms around him and sobbed. He was a damn Knight, give him a sword, and half a dozen men to kill, but confront him with a weeping woman and he was so green he might as well piss grass. “There there,” he said weakly as he patted Princess Daenerys lightly on her back.

 

At least Oswell got the same treatment, he noticed smugly, even if Oswell seemed more at ease than he himself felt in that moment. And so, with the night still young, he, Oswell and fifty other men saddled their horses and rode west, towards Westeros, he could only hope that the Queen would be forgiving and welcome them into her service, it would be just his luck if the Queen should turn out to be as cold and unyielding as the rumours said, at least she was only named for the first Visenya, dealing with the original one would have been a nightmare if the tales were true...


End file.
